


As Above, So Below

by AmputeeTrainee



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Ancient Greece, Developing Relationship, Drama, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Mythology References, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Side Ships, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmputeeTrainee/pseuds/AmputeeTrainee
Summary: Hermes darted down on impulse.“Wait! I think I can help you out,” he offered, stopping just before the apparition.This wasn't any different than helping a stranded shepherd or traveler, right? He answered their prayers all the time. This was just another lost soul, literally. He wasn’t infringing any boundaries by doing this. Probably.
Relationships: Ares/Thanatos (Hades Video Game), Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 173
Kudos: 432





	1. Chapter 1

Time is a strange thing.

For the immortal, events flowed right into the next.

One moment, Hermes was a young godling stealing Apollo’s cattle, playing with sheep in the fields, and pulling pranks on mortals and his broader family. The next instant, he was saddled with responsibility.

Not that he minded. Really. He seemed to hear and see things a little differently than his kin.

All Olympians had unique attributes and interests. His father, Zeus, ruled the skies and could call down lightning at will. Poseidon commanded the waters and the creatures within to do his bidding. Aphrodite shone with unearthly beauty and inspired love. Ares could spark bravery or bloodlust and delighted in the sheer brutality of war. And so on.

His family was all-powerful, but differently so. And Hermes, well, he moved swiftly—faster than the wind. Everything about him is built for speed, from the wings nestled in his hair, to his nimble frame, down to his muscled legs, Hermes was born to run.

He has a knack for finding objects, people, and even other deities. All gods were prayed too and knew the pull of invocation. But Hermes could pinpoint the location exactly. Dead on. Every time.

Prayers, messages, it didn't matter. Hermes could hear them whisper in the wind. Almost view the person calling in his mind's-eye. He could see flickers down below like little guiding lights calling to him from the top of Mount Olympus.

Once he had a course, nothing could stop him.

He is the perfect deliverer.

Messages and needs reached out to him. While other gods sometimes tuned them out or were blind to them, the requests lit up Hermes's world with wonder. Merchants, shepherds, travelers, couples. So much need, so much life! No two calls were the same—

_‘My Lord, I need help! That jerk in the next stall over stole my shop lockbox, and I need it back.’ 'Gods on high, hear me! My wife and I wish for a child, please.’ ‘Lord Hermes, let me just pull off this last robbery, and then I swear, I’m out of the game for good.’ ‘Gods, if anyone is out there, keep watch over my flock, for the nights are cold, and I am scared.’_

His kin also recognized his uncanny ability to show up when called. At his coronation, he was given the talaria, a pair of golden, winged boots fashioned by Hephaestus. Once on, he hardly ever dared to take the footwear off. He never wanted to touch the ground again after tasting the gift of full flight.

Hermes officially added the title Messenger of the Gods to his growing list of duties. He flitted between his family like a bird sending messages—declarations of war, love poems, and occasionally the odd favor or two. Rushing between godly deliveries and mortal affairs occupied his days from sun up until sundown.

He liked it.

He was duty-bound but free to travel anywhere he pleased. Helpful but also helping himself. Olympus was his home, but his family could be a bit overbearing and self-absorbed for his tastes if he stayed too long.

He felt more comfortable traveling somewhere halfway between the clouds and the mortal realm than on Mount Olympus. He was drawn to the wonderfully strange mortals’ desires down below and the requests of his kin above. Free but needed. Expected.

Then one day, he heard a new kind of a call.

The request had a lost, pitiful energy. A pain to it he hadn’t ever heard before. Curious to a fault, Hermes went to find the sender. The pull of invocation drew him to the coast. The rocky slopes of the rugged Grecian coastline were beautiful, stark, and dangerous.

The call urged him down a narrow, sloping path. Fresh wheel tracks ended at the edge of a cliff. Flying near the precipice, he spied an overturned horse-drawn cart below. The cart laid on its side, frame and wheels splintered from the force of the fall.

The animal had perished, still tethered to the two shafts of the cart. Spilled fruit, bundles of grain, and barrels of fish lay scattered across the rocky coast in the hot sun, all of it rotting in the heat and drawing flies and seabirds.

He almost overlooked the crumbled body at first. And might have, if not for the ghostly light that hoovered near the corpse. It flickered brightly at him as his eyes scanned the scene.

It was a shade. The weird bits of humankind that didn’t fade when their bodies expired.

The ethereal form approached, the outline of a body and little more. The spirit had no true face, just the depressions where eyes and a mouth should have been.

Yet, the shade could speak.

“Please, my Lord Hermes. I need to go to the Underworld, and...and I cannot find the way. Can you grant me your help?” a soft, reedy voice asked.

Hermes frowned at the pitiful creature, feeling a tug of sympathy. This had never happened before. Only the living and divine called to him, never the dead.

The shade hung its head, taking his surprise for rejection.

“I understand, my Lord. Death has not yet answered. I will keep trying then…”

Hermes darted down on impulse.

“Wait! I think I can help you out,” he offered, stopping just before the apparition.

This wasn't any different than helping a stranded shepherd or traveler, right? He answered their prayers all the time. This was just another lost soul, literally. He wasn’t infringing any boundaries by doing this. Probably.

If he is stepping on anyone’s toes, then he would deal with the repercussions later.

Hermes extended a hand to the shade with a smile. “I got ya!”

He swore an ethereal grin lifted the formless face in return.

* * *

The Underworld had many entrances, but all openings led to the same place: the Temple of Styx.

Hermes has been here before and beyond. Olympus had sent a few requests in the past, and the Lord of Underworld replied on even fewer occasions. Still, the land below the living was a mystery Hermes had dashed through, in part.

He’d spirited in and out of Elysium, Asphodel, Tartarus, and the House of Hades. But the walls and waterways that led there never quite seemed to be the same. Every time he was requested to deliver a message to or from his uncle, Hermes felt like he’d accidentally taken a different path there and back.

It was a strange trip, traveling to and from the Underworld, but doable.

A feat he didn't consider the novelty of because it just was. He always managed to find his mark if he set his mind to it, worked his legs, and flapped his wings against the wind. He had always been able to go anywhere needed.

Today was no different.

Besides, the delivery only needed to be taken to the threshold, no further.

The doors to the Temple of Styx opened at his request. Hermes ushered the shade inside by the hand. He flew past Cerberus. The three-head dog offered a low growl as he fluttered overhead, but little else.

The first time Hermes traveled down to deliver another backhanded apology letter from Zeus to his older brother, the beastly guardian honestly tried to intervene—but Hermes was faster.

The poor dog had nearly knocked itself out, heads accidentally bashing together as it snapped after Hermes flitting between them. Too easy. The hound never tried to stop him again but held no fondness for him either.

Hermes escorted the shade to the dock inside the temple with an easy smile on his face. In the misty waters of the Acheron, an ornate boat bobbed softly, unmoored to the pier yet bound all the same. On the end of the dock, the owner hoovered, oar in hand, in the same steady fluctuation as the skiff.

He was aware of Charon.

Everyone above and below knew of the Stygian ferryman.

The mortals prepared their dead for this moment, placing golden obols over still eyes and tongues. A price had to be paid to cross the waterways and enter into the Underworld. The boatman was the toll collector and, for most souls, served as the only and final source of transport throughout the realm.

His family had few niceties to say about the Underworld, and fewer still about its keepers. But the gods above were aware of this transaction too. Crossing over into the land of the dead existed before Olympus.

Hermes knew his father didn't like being reminded of the era before his rule. None of his kin did. The Chthonic gods were remnants from a time before them, and perhaps, that is why his fellow Olympians had little to no pleasantries for Nyx and her ilk.

The Chthonic gods also didn't lay a finger to assist during the war with the Titans; he remembered his father complaining. Instead, they were content to wait it out. See which side won.

Only in the aftermath of the Titanomachy had the ancient deities below been affected. Hermes always got the notion that it was with a begrudging acceptance Hades ruled here. Or else, Olympus might turn their combined strengths against another foe, now that the Titans were gone.

Still, he felt no unease approaching the ferryman. He was never one to shy away from the unknown. Perhaps to a mortal, the tall, imposing figure draped in a wide hat and gilded robes dark as night would be frightful.

“Greetings! Charon, correct?” Hermes called, flying up and stopping before the boatman without hesitation, shade in hand. “Heard this poor lost soul wandering and decided to lead him back to the flock.”

No response.

“Right, I believe we haven’t met before. I’m Hermes! God of swiftness, commerce, shepherds—among other things. Maybe you've heard of me? I tend to travel," He said pleasantly.

No reply.

"Well, it's nice to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard about you and your kin from Ares. But I suppose that makes sense. Of course, the God of War would be more acquainted with death and all the trappings that come with it.”

Hermes paused, realizing he was babbling.

Absolute silence hung on his word.

“Right...anyway. I know this isn’t technically my job, but I felt bad for the poor thing, you know?” He asked, gesturing to the shade.

The silence started to eat at him.

Brow furrowing in annoyance, Hermes dared to fly closer. He angled to peer under the wide brim of the hat to see if the other was ignoring him. It was a sensation he was used to but loathed. Most of his family tended to find him too chatty when they didn’t need his services.

Bright, violet light fixed onto his face. His eyes widened.

Oh!

Hermes froze for a fraction of a second.

Suddenly, he understood why his kin described the boatman in hushed tones as ‘grim,’ ‘a man of few words,’ and ‘haunting.’ A gaunt face stared back at him, all sharp angles and decay where muscle and softness should have been. Dark gray, almost black skin was pulled taut over protruding bones.

A walking dead man.

Life moved in the ferryman’s eyes. But there was no pupil, no whiteness—Just twin points of brightness that flickered like torchlight. The deity had no lips. No nose. If they ever existed, they were gone or now part of the tight skin that highlighted his permanent skeletal grin.

Stranger still, a trail of purple smoke seeped from between parted black teeth like incense diffusing into the air. The ethereal vapor seemed to be the same color as the ferryman's burning gaze. Like all nebulous parts of the man were composed of the same shadowy energy. Gloomy, amethyst light faintly reflected off the thick, golden collar and chain of obols wrapped about the man’s neck.

Unearthly. Distinctive.

He had never seen a being like this before.

“Well, aren’t you something, boss,” Hermes appraised, a curious smile lighting his face. “Definitely live up to your reputation.”

A groan that sounded like a death rattle issued from the deity.

The light focused on Hermes flickered downward, like a candle blowing in the wind, to the shade at his side. The ferryman raised a large hand, palm up. Golden rings stood out in contrast on grey, ashen fingers. 

Oh, right.

Hermes turned to the lost soul, placing a hand on its shoulder. The shade felt cold, like mist. But it had weight, dimension. If he pressed down gently, vapor pushed back in liquid waves. The ethereal head turned toward him.

“I, I realize now I don't have any coin, my Lord,” the shade admitted. “My, my family doesn’t know I...passed. No one does…”

True. The memory of the broken wagon and body flashed through his mind’s-eye. A single slice in time. Lost. Forgotten.

“Not a problem.” Hermes winked at the spirit.

Fast as lighting, he dug through the satchel at his side.

He always had a trove of treasures on him—scrolls, a bottle of nectar, gems, a golden goblet, offerings. A little bit of, well, everything. People and gods were always entrusting deliveries to him. He also had a knack for finding goods that he had every intention of giving back, one day, maybe.

What was one coin?

Smile on his face, Hermes handed the golden obol over to the lost shade. The spirit took the coin with a small bow and a whispered thank you. Again, something like a grin lifted the poor wretch’s face, and he couldn't help but feel a little pleased with himself.

A deep groan rumbled through the air.

“Grraahhh!”

Wood thumped as the end of an oar stabbed against the ground. Hermes turned to find the ferryman’s ghostly eyes staring at him. The way the light seemed to narrow at him pointedly felt personal.

“What?” Hermes asked, head tilting in confusion.

The boatman’s finger jabbed in his direction before motioning sharply to the shade. Slowly but firmly, the withered head shook back and forth once, clearly upset about something. Smoke plumed in dark, thick clouds from the ferryman’s mouth.

“Hhoo...” sound rumbled low and raspy from the deity.

The shade, dwarfed by the size of the boatman, reached up to present the coin. Charon snatched it and immediately thrust it back toward Hermes.

“Hhoo…” the sound echoed, louder.

The skeletal countenance shook back and forth again. Violet light glared brightly at his face. Smoke fumed thickly, darkening. Ringed fingers lifted the coin higher in his direction.

Weird.

Hermes understood that in some strange way, the ferryman is trying to tell him no. That this wasn’t acceptable. But, Hermes didn’t understand why not and cared even less. He’d never heard a tale of the notoriously greedy boatman giving back a fare and didn’t see why this one instance should be any different.

An obol was an obol, right? So, he played dumb.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch any of that. Nice meeting you, though.” Hermes shrugged before turning to the shade and clapping the spirit on the back, “Anyway, good luck down there! I’m a little behind now, but no worries. This was definitely an experience.”

Good deed for the day accomplished, Hermes turned away.

Wings spurring him onward, he dashed off, ignoring the angry, raspy groans that sound after him. He easily slipped out of the temple and into the world beyond, feeling quite pleased with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, here I go posting another half-finished fic again.
> 
> Another story about how Herm got the soul guide gig. Read fics, wanted to write one too. Hope y'all like it. :)
> 
> I thought the title was too silly. But, it’s legit steeped in Hermeticism and comes from the Hermetica. While Hermeticism was popular waaaay after the timeline of this fic, it references Hermes and is all about mysticism and crossing barriers and, like, idk it was too dead-on perf not to use so…


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few days and nights, Hermes received more requests than ever from the moral realm. But they weren't from merchants, travelers, or shepherds. At least, not living ones.

For the first time since he could remember, he ignored the pull of invocation. It felt strange. But, it wasn't his job to answer the souls of the deceased. Had the dead always called out to him like this before? Hermes didn't think so. But they wailed so loudly now; he had difficulty tuning them out.

Still, in his opinion, the living needed his guidance. And the dead? They had their own gods.

He ignored how the shadows seemed to thicken at dusk. It was just a trick of the light. He didn't answer the thin, wailing voices calling to him in the wind. He refused to inspect the faint lights that speckled the land. No. There were more lively beings that required his attention.

He neglected to notice how his own shadow trailing behind him was larger, darker than usual. A fact he probably wouldn't have realized at all had Ares not pointed it out to him.

Hermes bushed by all these strange trifles. There were other duties to attend to. He didn't have time to dwell on darkness and death.

He was busy.

* * *

Hermes became a little anxious when he felt the pull of Hades's power call for him a few days later. The flare of energy was a signal: time to fetch a new correspondence.

His uncle rarely sent any messages. Only once a year at most. Still, Hermes's duty was to ferry all godly mail, regardless of whether it came from above or below.

He followed the call.

He zipped through the temple entrance, raced by the dog, sprinted through the winding halls and along waterways until he reached the unfolding, ever-changing central point of the Underworld.

The House of Hades mirrored the splendor of Olympus above, but the chilled air here felt eerie, off-putting. Cold, austere marble columns and walls stood in a manner that reflected the grandeur above, but no amount of white and gold-trimmed detector could remove the gloom and melancholy that forever tinged the Underworld.

Hermes hoovered in front of Hades's desk, fidgeting as the imposing god sealed a piece of parchment with wax. The workspace overflowed with endless paperwork—tallies, deeds, and decreases from the dead entering the Underworld.

Hades was always prickly, his gray face creased with perpetual disappointment. His broad, muscled shoulders dipped like the condemned Atlas. But instead of holding the world aloft, he was tasked with judging a sea of unending shades.

Cold, dark eyes guarded by thick brows suddenly flicked up to look at Hermes. If that beady gaze didn't always shine with resentment and annoyance, he might have felt some sympathy for his strange uncle.

Hermes straightened as the scroll was thrust in his direction, accepting it.

"For my _esteemed_ youngest brother, Zeus," Hades demanded with sharp sarcasm.

"Of course, your lordly, um, ness." Hermes nodded, ready to dart off. "Be seeing you then!"

Hades's focus narrowed on him in a way Hermes distinctly disliked. A hidden tension.

"Indeed," His uncle clipped, attention returning to the chaotic workspace.

Hermes ran.

* * *

The delivery to Zeus went smoothly. The exit, not so much.

Hermes handed his father the letter and dashed away, business concluded. He was nearly crossing the gate out of Olympus when he felt his father calling him back. Urgently.

Usually, when Zeus requested to speak with him privately, it was to send more brash love letters or trinkets to whichever mortal maiden he was trying to woo at the time. Hermes's shoulders sagged as he turned back around and flew again into his father's domain.

When he returned, Zeus stood in his stately quarters, gazing out at his cloud swept kingdom from his lavish, golden balcony like a wizened ruler. A frown creased his lips as he stopped before the ruler of Olympus. Typically, Hermes found his father reclined with drink and company.

Stormy eyes didn't look at him, but broad shoulders straightened at his approach.

"I've received word from my brother. A rarity, in itself," Zeus began, the scroll held in large hands folded behind his broad back. "And when he chooses to reach out, it is not to reciprocate my many gifts, but to make demands of me."

The whole presentation was so grandiose and self-important, Hermes couldn't help but roll his eyes. To him, they were both stubborn old gods. He just had to deal with his father's philandering far more often than he would care to, thus finding him more irksome.

"Yes, and?" Hermes interjected, wanting to get to the point. "I know you can wax on all day about your many strained relationships, your older brother notwithstanding. Spare me. Why am I here?"

Zeus turned to fully face him, a frown weighing his face.

"It seems you've been very busy, as usual. And it hasn't gone unnoticed. My brother, of all people, is demanding your assistance with the affairs of the Underworld."

Head tilting at the news, Hermes felt his feathers ruffle. "In regards to what?"

"I think you know what. Something you neglected to tell me."

He hated when Zeus got parental. But the way stormy eyes narrowed at him made Hermes pause. He thought back over the last couple of days and nights. He did, maybe, technically visit the Underworld recently.

A single good deed done.

"Oh, well. I mean, there was this shade on the beach," Hermes admitted, tapping his chin. "I heard that it wanted to go to the Underworld, and I led it there. What's so wrong about that?"

He offered a quick, innocent shrug, causing Zeus's eyebrows to knit.

"We are not supposed to interfere with the workings of the Underworld without permission from my brother. Our relationship is strained as it is, and you just go waltzing in there—"

"—But I was just helping out one shade, the one time! No big deal," Hermes pressed.

"Apparently, that is the very definition of a 'big deal,' boy."

He didn't like the stern tone in his father's voice or the way he slowly handed the scroll over. Hermes took the parchment and read aloud, eyes skimming rapidly over the words.

"Brother, it seems your swiftest son has seen fit to presume he can act on behalf of the guardians of the Underworld. I have been informed by my consort that he has brazenly escorted the dead and provided an improper but binding offering—wait, _binding_ offering?" Hermes repeated, heading shooting up.

Well, that was undoubtedly cryptic.

"What did you do?" Zeus asked, giving him a disappointed look.

What had he done?

"I...paid the shade's fare," Hermes answered, a beat slower than average.

His father's shoulders dipped. Usually, Zeus's temper flared at negative news. To see his father look resigned, almost saddened, is as unexpected as it is uncomfortable.

"For this offense," Hermes continued, "I decreed that he take up the very duties he seems to believe he knows so well. What the Underworld accepts cannot be given back—wait, _what_? He is to report to the House of Hades for work with your approval upon delivery of this notice. I-I…" His voice faltered in disbelief. Swallowing thickly, he stammered. "I don't—Father, this can't be serious."

A deep sigh issued from Zeus. "If it were just escorting the shade, I might have been able to talk my brother out of this."

"I don't understand—it was just a coin."

His father's beard head shook solemnly back and forth.

"Not just _a_ coin, boy. _Your_ coin," Zeus corrected and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "My son, you are gifted in many pursuits. Your abilities influence so much of creation, life.

"You handed something over to the Underworld, and it is not like Olympus or the mortal plane. That realm only takes. And, once it takes hold of something, it doesn't ever completely let go. I didn't realize that fully until my brother…"

Zeus's grip tightened, and Hermes felt his wings droop in worry. His father was rarely this serious or concerned.

"My brother, who is likely better able to explain the circumstances you have put yourself in than I," Zeus finished. "So long as you still accomplish your current duties, I see no reason to deny his request."

"But, I didn't realize…" he started, but the excuse felt inadequate, and the words stopped.

His father gave him a meaningful look. A strong hand clapped his shoulder once, then released.

"Best be on your way," Zeus dismissed.

Eyes downcast, Hermes turned away as worry churned in his stomach. Strong legs and fluttering wings quickly took him back to the Underworld. He was unsure of what awaited him.

For once, the unknown was not as exciting as it usually felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will p much mention everyone to some degree? I'll do my best to update tags as this grows. Any suggestions, lmk.
> 
> Y'all very sweet btw. Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

The House of Hades was usually empty, save for a few shades milling about and the Lord of the House reigning judgment from his desk. But now, Hermes found an audience waiting for him.

Strange.

His swift arrival was frequently welcomed but not anticipated.

Hermes flew toward Hades's large, muscled frame seated behind the overstuffed desk and stopped fluttering a meter off the floor in the middle of the room. He had glimpsed some but not all of the primordial gods who dwelt here on his previous deliveries. A few he had only heard described were now gathered in the gloomy space of the central hall.

He knew Cerberus resting beside the desk. The low growl the three-headed dog offered when his eyes swept over the beast meant it knew him too, and not fondly. He turned briefly, seeing more levitating figures behind him, stemming the flow of the shades filtering out of a crimson pool in the back of the hallway.

Charon hovered, foreboding and silent like a specter, gripping his ever-present oar tightly. Head dipped downward, the ferryman's face was obscured by the dark hat. Steady wisps of purple smoke curled from under the wide brim.

The cold, pale face of Death was also familiar. Thanatos floated beside his grim brother, curved scythe strapped to his back, glinting in the dim light. He'd seen the quiet Thanatos have audiences with Ares before but had never spoken with the stern-looking god in person.

Hermes assumed the reclined god by Death's other side to be his twin brother, Hypnos. He had never seen a more carefree, dreamy face. The description he'd heard from Dionysus and Hera matched the slight, snoring god bundled in a crimson quilted cape well.

Hermes had never glimpsed Nyx before, but the ethereal goddess floating beside Hades's desk was unmistakable. Swathed in layers of night and stars, Nyx radiated a power both foreign yet distinct. Light and space seemed to warp around her. The midnight of her hair drifted ever upward, like the flap of raven wings in mid-flight.

The Mother of Night and her ilk exuded a strange energy. Hermes felt compelled to do something he never had before. He bowed in her direction. It was a shallow, quick dip of the head, nothing deep or reverent. But an acknowledgment that this primordial being and her kind had been here before.

A cold smile lifted Nyx's plum lips for a breath like a hair-line crack in a marble façade.

The Lord of the Underworld was a busy man and began forcefully.

"Lord Hermes, son of Zeus. You are the god of swiftness and commerce, correct?" Hades asked like he was confirming information to be filed.

"You know I am, among many other things," Hermes answered briskly. "Look, I understand I might have made a teeny-tiny mistake here. But the shade called out to me. I just did what it asked. Really, it's not my fault."

"My brother and his lot are not to interfere in my realm or any duties that pertain to such."

"But, Lord Ares is always—"

"—Lord Ares goes through the proper channels," Hades cut, large hand balling into a fist. "He may send souls here, but he doesn't lead them by the hand to the Underworld. You overstepped your bounds."

"But I don't understand how doing one good deed ends with me working for the Underworld!" Hermes argued back.

"You blind, little fool, you—"

Nyx raised a pale, graceful hand.

Hades's tirade stopped in its tracks. Hermes held his tongue. Silence. The Mother of Night glided toward him. The many layers of her dress shifted delicately like moths' wings fluttering in the evening air.

"Child," She addressed him softly, face neutral. "It brings me no pleasure to inform you that you have bound yourself to this place."

Normally, he hated being reminded he was anyone's junior. But the way it fell so matter-of-factly from her lips, it didn't feel like an insult, just a gentle truth.

"I don't understand how," Hermes lamented before the impossibly serene goddess.

"Entering my..." Nyx caught herself, mouth pressing into a thin line briefly as she spared a glance back at Hades. "Our realm requires sacrifice. The payment one must make is either by coin or blood. An unprepared soul is pitiable, perhaps, but not an uncommon occurrence."

"But _I've_ entered before without consequence," Hermes pressed, motioning to the hall around them. "I've been in this very room."

"Yes, as a temporary guest," Nyx corrected smoothly. "I understand you have duties you need to fulfill, and you are blessed with gifts that make you quite difficult to contain. I thought you understood this unspoken reciprocity."

Hermes did not.

He blinked, stunned into a rare moment of silence.

It suddenly made sense why the pathways of the Underworld seemed to change. Why it felt like darkness shifted around every corner. He was allowed in and out by the good graces of the night because she understood he had a calling and was only trying to answer the requests he heard.

"But one of your recent visits was not of that nature," Nyx continued, echoing words slightly out of time with the movement of her lips. "And your payment was received. But it was for you alone. You have been, in a way, accepted into my realm."

"But, the coin was meant for the shade, not me," Hermes tried to argue, feeling a bit defeated.

"You view coins as only currency, expected given your perception," Nyx replied, suddenly making him feel very small. "For souls, the coins show that the dead have been honored, blessed. It symbolizes that they have lived a worthy life. The coin must be given by those close to them—it must be earned. The shade you tried to lead now wanders the shores outside the temple."

His wings dip at the news. He had never considered a toll of this nature before.

"I was only trying to help." His voice sounded pathetic, even to his ears.

"I understand." Nyx offered a fleeting, bittersweet smile, like a cloud obscuring the view of a crescent moon. "But you are the god of currency. And in trying to lend a payment, you gave a small piece of yourself over to the Underworld. Your presence is tiny but tied here none-the-less."

"I didn't mean to."

"My eldest son informed me he tried to warn you of your transgression. Did you not take heed?"

"I…" Hermes glanced back.

He caught a glimpse of the tall, looming figure again in the corner of his eye.

The low brim shielded the Stygian boatman's face, but the man tipped his hatted head back slightly, aware of another's gaze. Smoke rolled in a dense cloud from bare, black teeth, obscuring sharp features. Through the haze, a single point of bright light focused on Hermes. Cold. Piercing.

He remembered the ferryman's low, loud groans. The billowing smoke. The shaking of the gaunt head. The ashen hand trying to hand the coin back. Come to think of it, though difficult to parse, the boatman's groans had sounded a lot like the word...no.

His mouth formed a tight line, gaze sinking to the floor. Feathers ruffled as a sudden twinge of guilt and shame swept through him. The ferryman, no matter how peculiarly, had indeed tried to prevent him from making this mistake—a warning he'd ignored.

"Yes, Charon did. I didn't listen," Hermes admitted, turning back around to face Nyx, wings drooping lower. "I gave over a coin that belonged to me to the Underworld."

"Good," Hades clipped. "It seems you understand your folly more fully."

Nyx withdrew, gracefully drifting backward like a cloud to her former position. Hermes immediately missed the enigmatic shield of her nearer presence. He looked across at Hades and offered a shallow nod.

"Since I have dominion over all the Underworld, and those that are a part of it, that means you now work for me, boy," Hades boomed, folding his meaty hands together. "Your inference has, thankfully, done some small good."

"Oh, so now, I _did_ manage to do some good," Hermes snorted.

"Your swiftness has its uses," Hades continued, ignoring his comment, though bushy brows glowered at him. "You clearly have nothing better to do than interfere with the work of others. So, you shall continue to be a waypoint for lost souls until I consider your transgressions pardoned."

Hermes didn't like the sound of that.

* * *

If there is one thing as constant as the dead in the Underworld, it was paperwork.

Hades demanded that he sign a contract to start the terms of his employment with the Underworld more fully. Hermes was, after all, the god of many things. Being Messenger of the Gods had and would always come first. His time was to be divided between his many responsibilities further.

He was of Olympus. An aberration here. Hermes was permitted to enter the Temple's threshold and further if his duties require, but no more. This was Hades and Nyx's realm, not his. He was tied to the Underworld in some small way, but not from here.

With the flick of a pen, psychopomp, guide of lost souls, was added to the end of the long list of godly duties he already oversaw.

Hermes was to lead the lost, the damned. Those slain by accident or violence. Duties Death apparently found distasteful. The dead were many and varied, Hades warned. To help manage the flow, he was to deliver at least one batch of souls per every cycle of Apollo's chariot. Day or night, it mattered not.

Feeling he had little choice, Hermes signed the contract.

The moment the terms were set, he leaped into the air, wanting to get as far from the Underworld as possible for the moment. He ran so quickly, the waterways and halls blurred. Burning waters and eerie green-lit hallways bled together, more nightmarish and haunting than ever before. He just picked a direction and darted. Fiery waters turned cool and misty. Viridescent lights shifted to blue-grey the nearer to the surface he got.

Hermes dashed into and was just about to sprint through the Temple of Styx when whispering words drew his attention. An hourglass figure draped in midnight and stars floated by the exit near the double doors.

Wait, hadn't Nyx just been in the house a few moments before?

He blinked, not used to being outmaneuvered. Yet, somehow, while her presence was sudden and unexpected, it was not all the same. This was her realm. If the pathways shifted down here, then, couldn't the night?

The goddess looked steadily at him from across the room. Her gaze was familiar and alien—eyes glowing with an unearthly yet comforting light, like the moon above.

"Child, may I have a word?" Nyx asked, words airy and echoing.

Hermes paused, then gave a quick nod. He already messed up by not listening to one Chthonic god. Best not make it two. He flew over.

"I understand events are unfolding in a way you do not foresee despite your intentions, and for that, you have my sympathy," The goddess offered softly.

"Um, thank you, Lady Nyx," Hermes replied, surprised.

"You mentioned that the shade called to you. Is that true?"

"Absolutely! I was just going about my business—I hear calls and payers all the time. It felt different, but not terribly so, and I sorta just acted."

"That is most unusual. In my experience, your kind often ignore the dead," Nyx mused, giving him a thoughtful look.

"I didn't really think anything of it; I help lost travelers all the time."

Mother Night gave a small dip of her head.

"Yes, as I understand things, you are already a shepherd of lost mortals. And so you shall continue to be," Nyx said, folding slender hands. "Leading the dead is different, but the same, in some respects."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. And then, well, here we are, so," Hermes let out a short, nervous laugh.

It seemed that Nyx was trying to make him feel better about his current circumstances. And it was nice. Weird, but nice. It made him kind of wish Hera acted more like this; solemn and mysterious but oddly maternal, rather than crafty and vengeful.

"You have always acted as a guide. Have you considered that perhaps you taking on this responsibility is fated, somehow?" Nyx asked.

He shook his head no.

"Take that thought with you, then," the goddess requested before bidding him farewell.

He did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Charon rn.](https://getyarn.io/yarn-clip/0dce4d02-85c7-4fad-b03f-e3cb3ee382fa)
> 
> Happy Solstice!


	4. Chapter 4

Mental reframing worked wonders. It really did. 

The next day, Hermes still answered prayers and invocations. He provided the same blessings, giving merchants prosperity, thieves luck, and couples fertility. 

He just answered to a wider audience now. That's all.

It was relatively easy to find shades now that he’s looking. They seemed to litter the mortal plane like so many tiny lights, fainter than the living, but still there. He simply answered their call, scooped them up into his satchel, and dashed off. 

Compressed by his will and charm, the spirits curled up tiny as a pearl in his hand before he tucked them away—perfect for transport. Small and faintly glowing. 

All his immortal life, his kin had shown disinterest in the dead. Once mortals expired and no more praise, power, rapture, hate, or love could sing through their flesh, the gods above felt little connection to them. But, Hermes had always had a different perspective than his fellow Olympians. 

And now? The spirits of the dead looked like treasure in his hands, each gleaming ball a tiny soul.

He heard a lost shade and answered. And now, he’ll continue to do that every day. He doesn’t regret trying to help. 

Besides, mortals are silly, inspiring. Weak and frail, yet somehow surprisingly strong and intelligent all at once. A paradox. In life, they often acted like children, so it made sense that some might need a helping hand in the afterlife.

It turned out, Hades was right. There were a lot of shades wandering the mortal plane. In Hermes's opinion, this was primarily the collective fault of the Chthonic brothers. They seemed to be too slow at their respective jobs. 

And boy, were they slow. 

Technically, he's supposed to deliver souls to the Underworld, not the Stygian ferryman specifically. He could leave them in the temple, but it felt wrong, like a job half done. Also, he maybe, sort of, wanted to try and say sorry. 

So, he did something he hated. 

Hermes waited.

Eventually, the bow of a boat cut through the mist of the river. The silhouette of a tall, cloaked figure moved in practiced rhythm, rowing the ornate skiff steadily forward. The boat docked with a soft, hollow thunk.

Charon drifted smoothly from the boat's helm to the end of the dock, silent as fog over a placid lake. Purple vapor curled beneath the hem of the long, dark robe, seeming to propel him forward. All of the Chthonic gods moved in an unearthly way like gravity didn’t exist. But Charon had really leaned into the whole shtick, in Hermes's opinion. 

“Hey there, boss! Here as ordered,” Hermes greeted, darting forward. “Looks like we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other. What with me working for the Underworld now, and all.”

He paused. 

Silence.

“Hope you don’t mind! I understand I may have stepped on a few toes recently—I didn’t mean to, honest! I thought I was helping. Sometimes, I just get a little ahead of myself. But, I guess I’m helping out full time now.” He gave a nervous laugh.

No response. 

Smoke drifted in a smooth stream upward from beneath the brim of the broad, gilded hat. Gods, he hated that hat—was the ferryman even paying attention? Disliking the obstruction, Hermes dipped lower to peer up at the other.

Violet light locked on him, cold as starlight. 

“Um, look. Point is. I wanted to say sorry about before,” Hermes offered bluntly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You tried to warn me, and I didn’t want to listen."

Silence. The ferryman's eyes remained bright, piercing. 

"I promise, from now on, I’ll always hear you out. Okay?”

The thin, shadowy face tipped slightly back and to the side at his words. The glow in the empty sockets flickered, no longer as glaring as before. 

“Ggraahhh…?” a low, questioning tone rumbled from Charon. 

“I mean, I’m going to have to work on it,” Hermes admitted quickly. “But I swear, I’ll do my best to understand you. We’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future—I want to be a good associate.”

“Hhaa, hhaaa…” 

A dry, mocking sound and a dense puff of purple vapor escaped inky, parted teeth. 

That...that was a laugh. And it was directed at him.

“What, you think that’s funny or something?” Hermes asked, face souring. 

A shallow nod. Light focused ahead dismissively. 

His cheek puffed out in annoyance. He hated being ignored.

“Well, sorry, _associate_. Like it or not. You're stuck with me for the time being,” Hermes replied, grin bouncing right back. Digging into his satchel, he grasped the cold cluster of souls. “Aaand, I’m not so sorry to inform you that you and your brothers have been doing a right _terrrrrible_ job up there.” 

Hermes withdrew the shades, letting them go one right after the next like seeds to feed a flock of hens. The shades grew once beyond his grasp, taking on a vaguely humanoid shape. His wings propelled him back, and the line extended, filling space. 

A dozen, two dozen, three dozen, four—

“You wouldn’t believe the number of shades I found just wandering around. Maybe it was a good thing I interfered. You should see how they litter the land like tiny specs. Honestly, I’m starting to think it’s no wonder they began calling to me—they have to pray to _someone_ who answers.” 

Hermes ran his mouth as he helped line up the shades, half congratulating himself, half ribbing the silent deity. The line of shades curled down the dock, up the central ramp, and stopped just short of the temple doors. 

“Anyway, what do you think? Not bad for the first day, right?” Hermes asked suddenly, fluttering back to pause beside the ferryman. 

Violet light gave him a flat, one-eyed stare, then stiffly glanced away. Gilded shoulders shrugged once, seemingly unimpressed. Charon merely raised a large, gray hand toward the first shade in the line, palm out. Ready for obol. 

The procession of the dead preceded. One by one, the shades gave over their coin and moved on. Hermes deflated a little, sinking in the air a step. So far, the Chthonic gods had a knack for making him feel very small and foolish sometimes. 

“Right,” he said, awkwardly clasping his hands behind his back. “Well, then. I guess that’s it for today. See you tomorrow.”

Hermes was off like a shot, feeling decidedly miffed about the exchange. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays/New Year!


	5. Chapter 5

Hermes wasn't used to his actions being ignored; they almost always caused a reaction. Not that he did deliveries and deeds for thanks, but he had grown accustomed to some semblance of acknowledgment. 

The other Gods at least gave him a nod or a quick word at most after he dropped off a message or package. And mortals? Their words whispered back on the wind, sometimes thankful, sometimes cursing his more playful nature when he creatively interpreted their inquiries.

_'Our son is beautiful—the joy of our lives! Thank you. Bless your name, Lord Hermes!’ 'I haven't lost a sheep to the rocks or wolves this season, thank you.' 'I got the lockbox back, but it was empty! Where did all my obol go?'_

The mortals sent him offerings too. The humans constructed small altars and larger shrines dedicated to him. They carved likenesses of him and sent him treasures. Coins, gold, luxurious incense, gems, dice, musical instruments, teas, and foreign spices filled the spaces the humans sought fit to worship him. He'd recently noticed more and more red wine was left behind like the mortals seemed to understand that his duties had become more chthonic-aligned as of late too. 

What strange, clever little creatures. Hermes rather liked mortals. He tended to collect what the humans left for him, as they were usually pretty and valuable little trinkets.

_'My Lord Hermes, thank you! My gang has never been richer. Please accept this ring from our last heist as a token. We couldn't have done it without your guidance.'_

The thief's ring was stunning in its simplicity when he found it on the altar. The gold looked lovely against this olive, sun-kissed skin but was too large for any of his fingers. Still, he tucked it and the other offering into his satchel—they were now his, after all. 

Hermes was used to being acknowledged for his deeds, good or bad. It didn't really matter. He had come to expect a rush of activity, a buzz, or some form of attention from his dealings. But his most recent duties proved to be a touch different. 

Like all other jobs, Hermes quickly adapted to his duty leading the dead. He was getting to be great at finding shades. While there was always a constant stream of souls, he kept them to a manageable trickle. Day by day, fewer lights dotted the landscape. 

His efforts went largely unnoticed, no matter how many shades he led. Which was fine. Really. The Lord of the Underworld sent him no new requests. The lady of the house did not appear to offer cryptic guidance. His Stygian associate met him with impassive silence every day.

It was fine. Honestly, his trips to the Underworld weren't anywhere near as ghastly as his kin made it seem. The deliveries were just a bit predictable. One-sided. Silent. That’s what bothered him.

The silence. It picked at Hermes.

He had noticed that a collective of specters always milled near the Temple of Styx. The constant crowd was starting to bother him too. Gnawed at him. Especially when Hermes swore he caught a glimpse of a familiar shade, which was silly because they all looked pretty much alike before being judged. 

His mind flitted back to that day on the coast every time he saw them. The reason behind his rash decision. Why he ended up accidentally working with the Underworld to begin with. He wanted to help. Wants to help.

Hermes had never witnessed the ferryman turn away a specter, but he knew why they were there. They couldn’t pay. He didn’t typically stay on the dock too long after the boatman arrived, beyond trying to say a quick hello. Violet light would glance at him, then away. All attempts at conversation met with silence from the Stygian ferryman. 

Charon only seemed to care about accomplishing the task of ferrying the dead. Taking obol. Filling the boat one by one. His associate appeared content collecting coins and pretending he didn't exist. 

Hermes was confident enough to admit he could be just a little impulsive. He was also confident enough to think he could get away with almost anything. Well, most of the time. 

He didn't completely understand the inner workings of the Underworld, just what he'd gathered from the duties forced upon him. But if his prior act of kindness gained the attention of those below before, maybe it would cause a spark of activity in the daily mundanity.

Hermes was getting tired of the silence. If he managed to soothe his conscience about the stranded shade while getting a rise out of his strange associate, someone, anyone? All the better.

With a smile, Hermes gathered up the souls on the shoreline outside by the temple. He handed each soul a coin. He didn’t count the cost, but his bag was noticeably lighter. 

Grinning mischievously, Hermes led the lost flock into the Temple of Styx. He waited for the ferryman, nothing amiss. He greeted Charon when the boat rowed into view. Silence answered back. 

The ferryman drifted to the dock to do his duty. The precession of the dead started. Only when the first shade in line placed an obol against the gray, open palm did Charon look at Hermes. 

_Really_ looked at him. 

The skeletal head whipped up so hard teeth rattled. 

Hermes's grin just grew wider. Finally, a reaction.

Burning violet light narrowed at him, and Hermes knew the ancient deity understood _exactly_ what he'd done. Charon probably knew the moment his ashen skin touched the coin. Currency meant something different in the Underworld. 

“Hhh, hrrrrgaahhh...” Charon rumbled, low and dangerous. 

He jabbed a finger in Hermes's direction before holding out the coin. The hatted head shook back and forth once. Smoke billowed beneath the wide brim like a thunder cloud before a sudden storm.

“I know I said I was going to listen—”

_Thunk._

Charon stabbed the end of the oar against the dock, making him pause. The waters behind them rippled.

"Rrraaa..." A deep, irritated growl issued. 

The air seemed to quiver. Hermes felt the hairs along the back of his neck rise. Still, he pressed on undeterred. Sure, Charon was ominous, but for anyone to pose a threat, they had to manage to catch the swiftest god first. 

“Buuuut I want you to hear me out too, alright? What’s so wrong with a little redistribution of wealth?” He asked quickly, weaving words. 

A grave huff left Charon. Smoke wafted in a thick, heavy haze. Unconvinced, unmoved. 

“I know Lady Nyx went on about rights, and blessings, and all, but I’ve met every one of these shades. I care about them. I can vouch for each one. They've earned it, trust me,” Hermes argued back with a smile, gesturing to the line crowding the dock. 

Black teeth clicked. Vapor fumed. Charon’s glowing stare felt steely, accusatory, like Hermes's words couldn’t possibly be true. 

“Honest. I swear,” Hermes pledged, holding his hand up. “Besides, I already gave one coin to the Underworld. What’s a few more? It’s not like I don’t work here now. What's the worst that could happen, aside from me probably getting chewed out by Hades, again?”

Silence. 

The ferryman’s gaze shifted from him, then to the line of shades. The silence was good. It wasn’t an outright no. 

"All this does is add more souls and gold to the Underworld. Speeds up the whole process, if you think about it," he continued to persuade, flitting to the boatman's other side to catch his attention again. 

Burning eyes gave him a sideways glance as Hermes drifted lengthwise through the air gracefully, as if on a solid surface. No direct reply, but that seemed to be the best he could hope for at the moment.

"And it’s not like it’s our job to pass judgment anyway, _right_? That’s Hades's whole deal. So, it's more like I'm doing everyone a favor." 

Violet light felt like it was peering into his soul.

Hermes just smiled back, a dozen more reasons ready on the tip of his tongue. He gauged the sharp countenance, feeling like he had seen this expression before, even if it was stiff and faint. It was the same look merchants had when weighing the cost of things. 

Suddenly, the light dimmed. 

A small wisp of smoke left Charon as he sighed and looked away. Gilded shoulders dipped ever so slightly. The large hand moved, and the coin joined the others in the pouch at the ferryman’s side.

“Great!" Hermes beamed, wings fluffing and lifting him a touch higher. "Glad you see things my way, associate.”

Charon said nothing.

Time passed, but Hermes never received a message from the Underworld about this transaction, so he figured the silence was answer enough. 

* * *

Hermes saw Charon every day to deliver more souls. 

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

The trips were as endless as Apollo’s cycle.

Hermes always waited at the dock. In the time it took for the boatman to arrive, he lined up the shades, prepared the poor, and gave a pep talk or two. While there were always a few souls he truly worried might try to slip away unsupervised, most just seem frightened, lost. 

So, he stayed for support. To do his duty. True to his word, Hermes was also there to greet the ferryman too in an attempt to understand him better. He always enjoyed solving mysteries—it made him feel clever. 

Hermes was great at filling empty space with conversation. Words spilled from his mouth, easily making up for the lack of response. With enough persistence, he managed to get feedback from the stoic ferryman now and then.

Charon knew when a toll was illegitimate.

The ferryman always seemed to feel it in the metal the moment the obol touched his flesh. The hatted face would turn to glance at him every time Charon found a piece of Hermes's charity among the shades. 

Violet light fixed him with a soul-deep stare, then seemed to roll in the empty sockets. Definitely annoyed, maybe amused. A low grumble and small huff of vapor always issued from the ferryman, as if to say, ‘You nuisance.’

But, Charon always accepted the fare, and it never failed to make Hermes laugh. 

Repetition made for familiarity. 

After a handful of times, Charon began to acknowledge his presence beyond moments of annoyance. While technically, the ferryman always did his job throughout, he took note of Hermes now.

When he waved from the dock, the hatted head dipped in his direction from the helm of the boat, returning the gesture. The sharp face would tilt up to fix him with a steady, one-eyed gaze. Sometimes Hermes stayed a little longer than strictly necessary, chattering until all the shades were onboard. 

In his way, Charon answered back. 

At first, Hermes thought the god’s skeletal visage didn't allow much in the way of verbal communication. But Charon wasn't always silent. Surprisingly expressive groans and sighs ease from the ancient deity. Affirmations were curt, quiet hums. Negatives came as low, rumbling growls. Questioning moans went upward in pitch at the end. 

The smoke trail that ceaselessly seeped past bare teeth also seemed to shift with the boatman's mood. Hermes began to notice the difference between fumes of annoyance, eddies of agreement, and puffs of laugher. The longer he spoke with Charon, the more he started to understand the unusual mannerisms. 

Hermes waved from the end of the dock as usual when the boatman exited the skiff.

"Hheerr, Hhrroooo..." the Charon rasped, settling smoothly beside him.

Hermes blinked, head cocking to the side. That sounded a lot like—oh!

"Ah, yes! _Hell-lloo_ to you, too." Hermes perked up and smiled in surprised delight at his unusual companion. “Glad you’re speaking up for once.”

“Hhaa, hhaa…” a smoky laugh rattled.

Hermes couldn’t help but laugh back. 

"Being your charming self, I see,” he teased. 

He liked the receptive shift in the boatman's demeanor. While the Underworld wasn't as active as the realm above, coming here every day wasn't silent anymore, no longer filled with dismissive huffs and decidedly glaring looks. 

Suddenly, his wings flexed as he remembered what he just saw above. Hermes dipped down to the other's height, words ready. 

“Oh! I just have to share with someone. I saw the most miraculous thing when flying over the battlefield from Ares latest war!"

Hermes always liked to float a head above everyone. Not that he was self-conscious of his height. No, no. Just to get a better look at everything. And, just maybe, to make others have to look up at him. But, he didn’t mind flying lower into the other's line of sight. 

Charon’s sharp, unforgettable face tilted to give him a sideways look. A low, interested grumble issued as violet light flickered at him steadily like a flame.

"Those mortals are getting so crafty. I swear, one just managed to remove the tip of an arrow from another, and they didn’t die!”

Hermes allowed himself to ramble, and, to his increasing delight, Charon rarely stopped him until the boat was loaded. He was always finding new and exciting sights above. They burst across his senses, enrapturing him with their creative energy. Split-hair decisions shaped history and called to him. 

On the whole, his kin got lost in his whirlwind of thoughts or zoned in on the bits that interest them. Dionysus cared about festivals and nymphs. Athena had some interest in new inventions. Aphrodite wanted to only hear about romance and love. And, so on. 

He was used to getting interrupted, being told to button up, or ignored. But, for once, it felt like someone was actually paying attention now. True, Charon performed his duty during their interactions. Shades paid their fare and loaded onto the boat one after the next. Glinting coins lined the broad, gray palm. The dead moved on.

Still, the ferryman gave echoing groans and hms at the right breaks, indicating he was listening. The hatted head tilted, offering glances that danced like candlelight in the wind. And every so often, if Hermes listened carefully, he swore he could understand raspy words. 

The more they spoke, the more Hermes started to look forward to his daily delivery to the Temple of Styx. Each new moment of understanding with his unusual associate felt earned. As if he’d just solved a small riddle in a series of larger complexities. 

It felt nice, like a reward.

But then again, Hermes had always heard and seen things a little differently than is kin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermes is the original Robin Hood lol. ~~where did all my obol go?~~
> 
> Idk, all I can ever really understand from Charon in-game are raspy hellos and what I assume is him laughing at your dumbass? I swear I've heard the dude say hello, but maybe I'm too many runs deep and losing it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	6. Chapter 6

Hermes always made at least one trip to the Underworld per day per his contract, sometimes more. Battles sparked, plagues popped up. He started to realize that while the Chthonic brothers might be slow, they were up against an inevitable onslaught.

There were always more dead. No matter how many Hermes led, there would be more tomorrow. The ebb and flow of death had its own rhythm, though, just like life. 

Recently, the world was warm, fragrant, full of sunshine, and fertile rain. When the mortal plane was like this, there were fewer deceased but more lively deliveries to make. Hermes grew accustomed to his fluctuating schedule and had a moment or two to himself on occasion.

His Olympic kin seemed to dislike his new job when he spoke of it. Hermes was used to losing his peers in conversation because he tended to flit from one subject to another. But their varying degrees of disinterest and disdain toward his latest duties hit differently.

He spilled nothing serious, just small, fleeting insights. How mortals still had personalities, they were just more subdued in death. How the cold Temple of Styx wasn’t actually all that foreboding. How the dim lighting of the Underworld gave everything a shade of mystery that was eerily serene. That the Chthonic gods may be reserved, but a few weren't so bad. 

The God of War was the only one who was receptive when he talked about his dealings with the Underworld. The rest either ignored his comments, said he must be mistaken or gripped about how he could find such a dismal place with archaic figures palatable at all. 

Eventually, Hermes stopped saying much, if anything, about his Underworld duties to his fellow Olympians.

He was from Olympus but always on the go. Never in one place for too long. While Olympus was his home, he didn’t feel like he belonged completely. Maybe, that was one of the reasons why he was always on the run. 

So, on one of the rare instances he had time to himself, Hermes decided to try to spend it with someone he felt would actually listen. 

Hermes zipped to the threshold of the Underworld, having already been there once today. Still, when he entered the Temple of Styx, he saw the familiar sight of a broad, tall figure floating on the end of the dock.

“Hello, my timely associate!” Hermes zoomed toward the other, stopping at the ferryman's side just as suddenly. 

The rush of air made Charon’s dark robes flutter. 

The ferryman was starting to arrive at the dock before him sometimes as if waiting here on occasion. Which, true, Hermes at times did make more than one delivery. But that also meant that Charon was changing his schedule to anticipate another arrival.

It felt nice. Being expected.

“No shades this time, old man. Got something I wanted to show you instead,” Hermes explained as he dug through his satchel haphazardly. “It's probably silly, but well, I have some extra time today, and it kinda reminds me of you, in a way. Ah—there!”

Hermes thrust his hand out. Tiny, pearly sheep bones gleamed back on his sun-kissed palm, each the size of a thumbnail.

“Knucklebones!” He proclaimed.

Charon’s head angled back to look at him. Ghostly eyes seemed to burn with a downright offended glare. Smoke fumed from between black teeth like steam from a boiling geyser. 

"Hhaaassss..."

"I am not teasing you!"

Black teeth clicked as an annoyed groan and huff of vapor issued.

"Well, maybe a little. But I mean it in good faith, my handsome ferryman," Hermes assured.

"Graahhh…" a low protesting rumble followed.

Charon dipped his head, hat brim catching the hazy screen of smoke that fanned over and hid gaunt features. Violet light glowed dimly. Huh. So, it wasn’t that hard to embarrass the other. Hermes felt a lopsided smile lift his lips. Still, he preferred seeing the sharp planes of the striking face. 

He had been teasing, not lying. 

"Hey, don’t get shy on me now,” Hermes flitted nearer.

With a quick flick of his hand, he dared to fan the plume of purple mist away. Obols jingled as Charon gave a slight start. Violet light flicked up and fixed on him brightly, surprised.

“What?" He winked down at his stunned associate, then relented a little. "You've never heard of knucklebones or something? I thought everyone knew how to play."

Hermes was a natural, but maybe having invented the game made him biased. When nothing but a silent stare answered, he pressed on.

"I have a little bit of time today—why don’t I teach you?" He asked.

Folding strong legs, Hermes drifted down until he was sitting pleasantly on the dock in front of the other. In the blink of an eye, he had already laid the pieces. 

Hermes glanced up, watching as a dismissive cloud left his associate. The hatted head shook back and forth, and an ashen hand motioned slowly to the moored boat and the river beyond.

" _Riiiight_. You're super busy, I see, what with the empty boat and all," Hermes poked back before smiling good-naturedly up at the looming god. "Come on, take a break! Even I do from time to time."

Silence. But the way the hatted head tipped, he knew the big boatman was listening. Hermes reached into his satchel again, following a gut feeling.

"Tell ya what,” he prompted, slapping several roughly cut gems on the dock beside the bones. “If you can beat me, I'll give you these." 

The whisper of dark robes fluttering as Charon drifted down to sit was the sound of victory. The way the fabric pulled and draped, the ferryman appeared to fold long legs to join his position. Huh, so there was a body under there. 

Bones clicked, and cartilage popped like the ferryman hadn’t sat down in ages. Still, the deity floated slightly, never truly touching the wood of the dock. Without a word, Charon rested the long oar beside them before fixing him with a one-eyed stare. 

"Ha, ha! Now I'm speaking your language." Hermes couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a strange surge of delight. "Alright, it's a pretty easy game. It’s mostly just throwing and catching bones, but gets kinda complicated—you'll see."

Hermes was naturally very good at competitive games, but that didn't mean Charon was terrible. The boatman’s movements were surprisingly dexterous and quick. He could repeat most of Hermes’s motions, learning more complex throws, different ways to catch the bones, and the point values behind all the maneuvers.

The ferryman didn’t get the plays right every time, but he was persistent. Large, calloused hands were agile and well-formed arms quick. Still, each movement betrayed a hesitant awkwardness.

Hermes’s kin often called the game knucklebones childish. While he found that a little offensive, he had to admit, it was pretty popular with youths and young women in the mortal realm. Because of that, Hermes had seen a lot of dice and throwing games played above, inspired by his godly creativity.

He’d witnessed these strong but unsure movements before in the offspring of farmhands, brickmakers, textile workers, and so on—those who had no time for leisure and were put to work to support their families. 

Teaching the ferryman how to play, it felt like the man had never done anything frivolous in his existence, ever. As if all the boatman did was paddle up and down the winding rivers of the Underworld and little else.

Still, Charon seemed apt and willing to learn. 

Stories flowed out of Hermes as they played. He couldn't help it; his thoughts always wandered. He hopped from recounting Dionysus' latest feast to this beautiful new song he heard the nymphs create, and back to godly affairs. Zeus was in the middle of crafting his latest plan for the mortals—a series of athletic games! 

He spoke unrestrained, getting questioning groans and smoky laughs back every so often. He noticed that sometimes Charon missed a turn, violet light instead focused on his face, listening. 

Hermes didn’t mention these mistakes. The attention made his stomach flutter. His pulse quickened, sending little prickles of electricity coursing through him. When encouraged, he could spin yarns forever.

By the time Hermes won, he wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed. He was probably behind schedule now, but the thought didn't bother him as it normally did.

“Looks like I won this round,” Hermes said, scooping the pieces of bone and gems and putting them away in his satchel. “Better luck next time, associate.”

“Ahhh,” Charon offered a soft, affirmative groan, head bobbing once. 

Hermes felt a grin lift his face, cheeks suddenly warm. 

It was nice knowing he could talk the big boatman into taking a break with him again—a new kind of reward. Just as the Underworld had layers, so too did his growing relationship with his affable associate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sources credit Hermes with creating the game [knucklebones](https://www.ancient.eu/Hermes/), aka, [jacks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knucklebones).
> 
> More story ahead, enjoy the fluff! Thanks for reading! :)


	7. Chapter 7

Hermes wasn’t surprised to run into Thanatos on Olympus. Death was one of the few Chthonic gods to be called above with any frequency, and their line of work now intersected.

He spied the dour god leaving Lord Zeus's chambers, holding what looked like a pair of shackles disinterestedly in one hand. Hermes had heard through the grapevine that his father was particularly steamed at some mortal monarch, the uppity King of Ephyra, Sisyphus.

The king had died but refused to relinquish his crown. Sisyphus continued to try and run his city-state as a shade, apparently saying that his death made it possible for him to rule for all time. 

This, of course, did nothing but anger both Zeus and Hades in one go. An incredibly foolish move. The two estranged brothers could only really agree on one thing; they both loathed mortals who acted like they were above the will of the gods and refused to follow the natural order. 

The dead were dead; they must go to the Underworld. An example needed to be made out of the king, less other spirits followed his lead. 

Hermes was rather happy to see Death getting roped into wrangling souls. Personally, he felt like he was doing more than his fair share of finding lost shades and helping them to the other side. Just because Thanatos preferred softer deaths didn’t mean he ought to get only the most prepared shades.

However, Hermes was surprised when Death met his eye and glided through the hall in his direction. Usually, when they crossed paths, they just nodded in greeting and went their separate ways. 

"I hear you are fitting in better than expected in the Underworld,” Thanatos started abruptly as he stopped hovering a pace away. “My older brother talks about you lately. He rarely says a word, much less mentions someone by name." 

Hermes blinked rapidly. 

That had to be the most he’d ever heard Thanatos say in one go. The other is far too serious, but his flat tone wasn't one of vanity or boredom, just fact. 

"Ha, ha. All good things I hope," Hermes replied, feathers ruffling. 

Charon talked about him specifically? Said his name?

"Surprisingly, yes," Death admitted. "What did you do to earn his favor?"

A game of knucklebones and a few long, somewhat one-sided conversations filtered through his mind. Well-timed smoky laughs. The steady glow of attention. A silent sort of understanding. Rare, rasping words. 

Just everyday interactions between coworkers. Still, these moments felt too simple yet oddly personal to share in detail. 

His ears suddenly felt warm. Wings fluttered.

"Nothing much of note,” Hermes said, rubbing the back of his neck, unsure of how to explain their conduct and not certain if he wanted to. “He's a fine chap, once you get to know him.” 

Hermes was getting used to how the Chthonic gods silently regarded him, calculating what and how much to say. All of Nyx’s ilk seemed to be like this. Their words had to be earned. 

“Indeed, though few make an effort,” Thanatos said matter-of-factly. “I have also noticed that your presence has increased our efficiency with the dead. It is...not unappreciated.” 

“Just doing my duty, same as you,” he replied with a grin, feeling a burst of pride in his chest at the small compliment. “Seems like you got saddled with a special case there.”

Hermes nodded toward the shackles. A small sigh escaped Death.

“Yes,” Thanatos agreed monotonously. “I am to catch a king and chain him in the depths of Tartarus.”

“Good luck with that! I hear he’s a tricky one.”

Someone who had earned both the ire of Olympus and the Underworld had to be. 

“Luck is for mortals," Thanatos replied, calm and factual. "Farewell.”

In a flash of green and a bell-toll of finality, Death vanished. 

Hermes frowned but supposed the other had a point. After all, how difficult could it be to capture a single shade?

* * *

Time flowed ever forward. 

Hermes flew to the Temple of Styx daily to fulfill his duty as expected. He was running late, and the night air chilled his skin as he pushed the temple doors open. 

Usually, he managed to make his deliveries during daylight hours, but there had been a lot of shades in the mortal plane over the last few days and nights. Enough to soon warrant multiple trips.

Hermes was starting to feel like he was picking up the slack again. 

Still, the pattern he’d grown accustomed to unfolded. He found the Stygian ferryman waiting on the dock and flew up to meet him. But, once their usual greeting passed and he withdrew the souls from his satchel, the procession of the dead didn’t begin. Instead, Charon turned fully to look up at him. 

“Aahh…?” a soft, questioning rumble emitted.

“Something on your mind, associate?” Hermes asked, dipping down and folding his hands behind his back. 

Violet light burned dimly in sunken sockets. A shallow nod. 

“Hhaannn, ahhh, ohhhss...”

“Sorry, what?” Hermes fluttered closer to hear better, cupping a hand to his ear. 

Charon seemed to speak like a fading mortal giving their last words, sounds broken syllable by syllable. The ferryman leaned nearer, repeating himself slowly. Hermes felt warm vapor curl past his cheek, like the mist rising off a hot spring. The scent of cinnamon and frankincense perfumed the air. 

“Oh, Thanatos!” Hermes grinned, pleased to understand the other. “We did run into each other recently. Super serious, that one. What about him?”

Through a series of groans and gestures, Hermes picked up the latest update from his associate. 

Charon pointed downward and repeated his brother's name softly but urgently. His ringed hand then lifted and flicked between the two of them, mimicking their line of sight before shaking his head. A despondent sigh whispered past black teeth. 

It seemed like the big boatman...hadn’t seen his brother recently and was asking if—

“Sorry, boss. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him either since Zeus and Hades gave him that special job a few days ago,” Hermes admitted, scratching his head in thought. 

"Ooohh…" a low, worried groan issued from the ferryman. 

The grey hand holding the oar tightened as Charon's head dipped, veiling his face. Broad shoulders bowed, the towering body turned to face the waiting line of shades. A wide hand raised slightly, palm up. The boatman began to perform his duty, but with none of the usual foreboding gusto.

Hermes felt his wings droop a little, never having seen the other act this way. Angry? Sure. Dismissive? Yep. Quietly amused? Definitely. But nothing like this. 

"Hey, don't worry. I mean, he _is_ death incarnate after all,” Hermes reassured, fluttering lower and craning his neck to try and glimpse the other’s shaded features.

Silence.

A small wisp of smoke plumed from under the wide hat brim, low and anxious. 

Hermes frowned at the response, chest panging painfully. Hm. There had been a noticeable increase in shades over the last few days. And now, Charon seemed to be displaying worry over his brother's apparent absence. 

One plus one equals two. Maybe there was a reason for concern. 

“I'll keep an eye out. Thanatos can't be too far off, right?" Hermes offered.

He felt compelled to give the solid, gilded shoulder a consoling pat before darting up into the air. 

Pumping his legs and wings against the wind, Hermes raced out of the temple like a bolt of lightning. The ferryman had basically given a request, and he was going to fulfill it. 

Where was Death?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First up, Sisyphus, then some other Underworld VIPs will be featured/mentioned.
> 
> So Sisyphus is the king of [Corinth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Corinth), but in antiquity the city was known as Ephyra, so that’s what I went with. Idk, not a historian but I thought it was fun.
> 
> Tags have been updated. If that’s not your flavor of fun, sorry, but I will likely keep throwing side ships at you as the story progresses ~~and I re-read more myths and remember how gay they all are~~. The next few chapters are written, but the rest is in draft land, so working on it lol.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	8. Chapter 8

Hermes headed toward the clouds above Mount Olympus. It sounded strange, but when he got a birds-eye view of things, they became clear. Before he could focus and peer down onto the world, however, he felt the pull of Ares. 

Curious, he followed the invocation of the God of War higher into the clouds. 

Hermes entered Ares’s domain, nose wrinkling; it always smelled like liquid rust here. His fellow god was seated on a simple lacquered chair. Despite the fine regalia, rich crimson robes, and spiky laurels decorating his person, Ares’s private quarters were always spartan.

War didn’t look at him when he crossed the threshold. Instead, Ares seemed content to idly play with the sheathed sword he held in battle-scarred hands. 

“Have you looked upon the face of Death recently, bother?” Ares asked when he flew nearer.

“No, can’t say I have in the past few days,” Hermes replied.

Huh, so others had noticed Thanatos’s absence too. Not good.

“I suspected as much, I too have felt a shift,” Ares admitted, gazing at the blade. “My wargames have not been much fun as of late without the swiftness of death.”

Hermes frowned at that, a little miffed. He knew he had and would continue to do a damn good job leading souls, those from the battlefield included. Also, Thanatos rarely reaped the souls of slain warriors. 

Unless Death and War had some sort of agreement that he was not aware of. Hermes glanced at his half brother, but the other’s attention remained on the sword. 

Ares was one of the few Olympians that called Thanatos regularly for an audience and didn’t shy away from topics about the Underworld. Most of their kin regarded Ares as hot-headed and bloodthirsty, but at that moment, Hermes started to think that maybe the other was just a bit misunderstood. A thought he was more inclined to have as of late.

“Umm, look, weird pitch, but do you want to help me look for him or something?” Hermes offered, giving the other a sideways look. “Death going missing can’t be a good thing, and two heads are better than one.” 

Surprise flitted through Ares’s eyes when he finally lifted his silvery head, and he quickly gave a stern nod.

* * *

Gods commonly traveled by chariot or glided on swathes of clouds, petals, or whatever they felt inclined to conjure. The whole notion seemed cumbersome when one had wings. War was not averse to swiftness and accepted when Hermes offered the gift of speed briefly. 

Taking hold of a scarred hand, Hermes spirited Ares quickly toward the city of Ephyra, both of them agreeing it seemed the best place to start. 

In the blink of an eye, they were beyond the gates of Olympus. 

They traveled south, following the curve of the rocky, wind-swept Aegean coastline. Free as a bird, Hermes took a shortcut across the land right over the city of Orchomenus, making a straight line toward the Ionian Sea. 

The prosperous Ephyra was tucked at the base of the gulf that nearly cleaved Peloponnesian from the mainland. The city-state accrued its wealth through oil production. Rows of short, squat olive trees dotted the hilly landscape from above as they neared. 

They traveled past a temple dedicated to Apollo, beyond a theatre, to the cluster of dwellings on the hillside. Mortals tended to build their brick homes focused around a central, open-air point, a courtyard. Enclosed rooms expanded outward from the center, as each family shared a communal space with nature.

Hermes swore he felt the faint tug of Chthonic energy whisper from the largest, lavish house.

They flew nearer. The property was sprawling from above, the central garden lush—a show of wealth and status. Iris and aster flowers bloomed from fine clay pots, highlighting the brick mosaic walkways and marble benches. 

In the center of the beautiful courtyard sat Death, looking out of place but lovely amid the greenery. He sat unmoving on the centermost bench, grounded. Cuffs were locked around the Chthonic god’s wrists, links tightly binding him to the stone and ceramic floor. 

Thanatos's usually covered head was bared, hood pulled back. Long silver locks draped his shoulders like spools of silver thread. The ever-present scythe was also unsheathed from his back. The weapon stood several paces beyond his reach, the handle plunged into the cracks of the courtyard like a strange flower blooming in the garden. 

Mocking. Taunting. 

How had a mortal managed to stop Death in his tracks in such an embarrassing way? 

Hermes released Ares near the middle of the garden.

"Oh, sweet Death," Ares muttered, taking in the sight. "What has happened to you?"

Narrowed golden eyes glanced at them as they neared, then away, as though the bright sunlight above hurt the Chthonic god’s senses.

"I…” Thanatos paused, throat tight. “He asked how they worked.”

“Seriously?” Hermes blurted, laughing at the admittance. “Well, I mean, by the looks of things, you obviously did.”

It was delightful to know even the silent, stoic gods could make mistakes now and then. Thanatos said nothing, refused to turn in their direction again, but his pale face seemed to turn slightly pink at the mockery.

Distracted by the whole scene, Hermes stopped giggling with a gasp as Ares managed to elbow him in the ribs. He shot the other a look, but the serious face of War took the sting out of his glare without a word.

Okay, fair enough. 

While this was a highly ridiculous scenario, it was also troubling. A mortal had managed to stop Death. There would be plenty more time to poke fun at the overserious yet apparently not always bright Thanatos about getting trapped later.

The shackles were obviously imbued with godly might. Thanatos admitted in few words that Sisyphus had played dumb, asked how the cuffs worked. The king pointed out that the binds weren’t connected to anything, so how could he possibly be kept in Tartarus. Apparently, once worn, the links became attached to the nearest hard surface.

Low and behold, the dark, mysterious, yet apparently sympathetic Thanatos showed the king. In doing so, the poor fool captured himself. Death was a straightforward, unflappable fellow, with little to no sense of humor. The perfect rube, in a way, not that Hermes would say that aloud, at least, not right this second. 

Ares took pity on the bound god first. Reaching for his sword, he withdrew the weapon and lunged to hack at the chainlinks binding Death. Sparks flew. Metal clanked. The links held, completely unscathed. 

“It doesn’t matter. The mortal has the key,” Thanatos muttered, not having moved a muscle. 

“Here. Let me take a look.” Hermes didn’t let that dissuade him. 

He took one of Thanatos’s bound arms, examining the shackle. Death merely sighed softly through his nose as if to say it was pointless and looked away. 

“Oh, see—this is classic Hephaestus right here, loves these sliding locks,” Hermes said, lifting the stiff, uncooperative arm this way and that to get a better angle. 

Hermes paused to dig through his satchel in search of a thin, metal pick. Not that he used this often, not at all. Locks were just so inconvenient to his work sometimes, honest. 

“The guy comes up with genius stuff, don’t get me wrong.” Retrieving the pick, Hermes inserted it into the keyhole, searching for the mechanism. “He just likes to use a similar pattern with the bolt placements.” 

Metal clicked. 

Thanatos gave a small hiss as the metal cuff released. Pale skin was worn and red underneath from the god tugging at the bindings in a vain attempt to free himself. Hermes unlocked the other wrist. The links unfastened from the ground and shrank to a manageable length. 

With a cheeky smile, Hermes held the cuffs before Death.

"Sure you don't want to give capturing the king another go?" Hermes asked, eyebrows wiggling. 

If looks could kill, Hermes was fairly sure he might have died on the spot. Anger looked good on Thanatos, though. Giving another laugh, Hermes darted off, intent on picking up the other’s slack yet again. 

A few paces away, he turned back to see if Thanatos was still trying to set him alight with his eyes. Instead, War had intervened. 

Hermes thought it impossible to ever accuse Ares of being gentle. However, the way battle-scarred hands soothed the marks left behind on Death’s arms made it clear the two had a more profound understanding than Hermes initially assumed.

* * *

The king wasn’t too difficult to find. 

Hermes discovered the tricky shade wandering the streets, still trying to rule the citizens of Ephyra near the central hub of the city-state, though none of his subjects seemed able to hear him. 

Sisyphus was far more cordial than Hermes anticipated when he caught up to him. The king's soul had no defined form, not yet judged, but the shade was wide, imposing. Sisyphus must have been a towering man in life. But at his approach, the king made no attempt to fight or flee.

The living couldn't usually see the divine unless they made themselves known, but the dead always could. 

“Greetings, my Lord,” Sisyphus said, raising a see-through hand.

Hermes could make out the shadow of an easy smile on the shade's face.

“You’ve put yourself in a right lot of trouble, mate.”

“Oh, good, just the right amount then," The king returned, the friendly smile growing. 

Hermes smiled despite himself.

Sisyphus had a quick wit, making good-natured jokes. Mortals were usually penitent or fearful in the face of the gods, but the king displayed neither. 

"I understand you're only doing your godly duties, Lord Hermes. But am I really dead?” Sisyphus proposed. “If I was able to trick death, doesn't that mean I am beyond him now?" 

Hermes was a sucker for philosophical debate. 

"Nice try, chap. But I can see right through you. Literally! You're a shade, and all shades end up in the Underworld, one way or another."

"Ah yes, 'shade.' I dislike the word. As if I am now lesser than. A shadow of my former self. I think it is if you will forgive me, a bit of a misleading and insulting term.” Sisphyus shook his head before looking up at him imploringly. 

"I mean, shade, spirit, it's semantics, really. Doesn't mean you aren't dead, mate," Hermes debated. "You are what you are. And honestly, I don't care where you end up in the Underworld in your afterlife, but you can't stay here."

“But, my clever Lord, I ask you, am I not better like this? I am beyond age and sickness. Although my mortal body is gone, my consciousness remains. What do you make of that?”

Wings twitching, Hermes gave the other a curious glance, suspecting the other was trying to talk him in circles—poke loopholes through the logic of the gods.

“I suppose your existence now is a...long term one, yes,” Hermes answered hesitantly. 

“Then am I not immortal?"

He blinked at the shade. 

“In a way, I...maybe, suppose,” he hedged. 

“And following that line of reasoning,” The king pressed on. “If I am then immortal, don’t immortals belong on Mount Olympus? Or, wherever they choose? From my perspective, I am only doing as I see fit with my everlasting existence, just like you."

Hermes felt his eyebrows raise. 

At that moment, he could almost understand how the king smooth-talked Death into submission. He could see why his father and Hades were so adamant about locking this one away. He understood fully why Olympus and the Underworld conspired together in a rare moment of solidarity to capture a single soul.

Sisyphus not only dared to challenge the gods by refusing to go to the Underworld. No. The king considered himself among them, in some way. And it was because of that belief that the mortal had the audacity to defy them, trick Death.

Hermes set his mouth in a firm line. 

He did what he should have the moment he found the king. In a flash, Hermes zipped forward. Shackles clamped snuggly around the king's ghostly wrists. Hermes pressed the metal cuffs together, and the links connected, interlocking.

"Whoops! Got ya distracted talking there," Hermes chirped. "Don't plead your case to me, mate. But you can take it up with the Lord of the Underworld himself—how's that sound?"

Before the crafty king could get a word in edgewise, Hermes compressed him. It was difficult. A shade had never been so willful before, but Hermes's godly might won. 

He stashed the king into his satchel, soul now bound and the size of a large pearl. 

Time for a special delivery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, don’t know my dudes. In the myths, Than really falls for it. Sis is legit like “show me how the cuffs work bro” and he fucking does. OTL So I just tried to make Sis sound super smart…
> 
> Ib4 "wait didn't Sis chain Than in Tartarus" yeaaa, but like I would hope Nyx or someone would notice that?? So I moved the location to outside bc I felt Sis would be enough of a jerk to chain Than up like a prized statue...
> 
> Threw a whole bunch of names at you. Here’s [some](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mycenaean_Greece) [maps](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/%CE%8C%CE%BB%CF%85%CE%BC%CF%80%CE%BF%CF%82,+Olympos+402+00,+Greece/Corinth,+201+00,+Greece/@39.0253656,19.7895963,6.74z/data=!4m14!4m13!1m5!1m1!1s0x135813ec20ecc251:0xe579def37a813f8c!2m2!1d22.3499207!2d40.083363!1m5!1m1!1s0x14a0144ce0a75b5f:0xcbec55e5ce5dabf4!2m2!1d22.9322383!2d37.9386365!3e0). Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

Hermes opened the doors to the Temple of Styx. The sound of voices made him pause at the threshold.

"Stop saying that. You sound like Nyx," Thanatos's flat voice snipped.

A deep and decidedly annoyed groan replied back. 

Hermes dared to flutter closer. 

In the corner on the dock, he saw the God of Death. Thanatos's hovering body was turned away from the door, wicked scythe and tapering body obscuring most of the ferryman he was currently complaining at. Hermes could make out the edge of a wide-brimmed hat and the tip of a tall oar. 

"Don't you think I tried that? Those blasted shackles prevented me from phasing," Death continued. 

A curt rumble followed. Teeth clicked. 

"I would have reached out...eventually. It's just," Thanatos sighed, looking stiffly away and to the side. "The whole thing is embarrassing."

Another chastising sound answered. 

The oar flicked forward in a blur, giving Death a sudden bonk on the flat of his head. Hermes had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Thanatos gave a small hissed and ducked, rubbing the sore spot. 

It was strangely delightful seeing the Chthonic gods act like, well, a family. They were impossibly reserved at first sight but obviously felt a sense of connection to one another all the same. It also seemed like Death could understand his brother's utterances very clearly. 

Darkness moved. Violet light focused on him. Hermes gave a sheepish grin, knowing he'd just been caught listening-in.

Thanatos turned stiffly at his approach. 

"Hey, weird day, right?" Hermes teased. 

"Do not begin to—"

"—Yea, not your proudest moment. Definitely not something you'd want getting around," Hermes cut in, digging through his satchel and withdrawing the soul of the captured king. "So, you'll want to be the one to hand this to the Lord of the House. Appearances and all that."

Thanatos didn't move to accept this offer. Instead, his grey brows gathered slightly, and his frown deepened. 

"Why? I thought you'd be quite pleased to recount this to your uncle," Death questioned. "Try to reduce your sentence here."

Good. So the pretty boy did have a head on his shoulders. 

Yes, this moment could be used to attempt to win favor with his uncle. The thought had crossed his mind on the flight over. But, a different option presented itself. While it might not ingratiate him with Hades, it seemed like the better choice.

After all, Hermes knew what it felt like to act with good intentions and have it go awry. 

"Gross. What, you think I enjoy talking to the guy or something? No one does." Hermes rattled off. "Besides, I've picked up enough of your slack for one day—thank you very much." 

Death stared at him silently. Classic Chthonic response, really. Used to that by now, he pushed on, being a little cruel to be kind. 

"I don't just run around for fun, you know. And sprinting down there takes at least eight minutes alone, then I gotta haul allllll the way back. No, no. Don't think so." Hermes shook his head, thrusting his hand out forcefully. "Here, you do your job, and let me do mine."

Death looked a little mystified as he accepted the soul. 

"You're…" Thanatos trailed, then the look of confusion on his face became understanding. "Fine, then."

"Good." Hermes nodded. 

In a flash of green, Death disappeared.

"Phew," Hermes let out a breath, rocking back on his heels in the air, before turning to his associate. "You would not believe the kind of day I'm having. I'll tell you what." 

A long, rattling sigh escaped Charon, clearly understanding all too well. 

"It was kinda funny, though." A small laugh bubbled past his lips. "I swear, I won't say anything, well, maybe to his face, but not another soul. It was a dumb decision, but it's nice to know you super serious gods can make mistakes, too."

A dismissive huff. A thin wisp of smoke. Hermes gave the boatman a side-eye.

"Yes, you included—you've lost every game of knucklebones so far."

"Ggaahh…"

A gray hand see-sawed in the air.

"Pfft, fine, and tied once," Hermes admitted. "But that's still not a win."

"Hhaa, haa…"

He smiled fondly.

Not that long ago, he thought all the gods below to be cold, uncaring creatures. And now? Here he was helping to save Death at the ferryman's request. Keeping insider secrets. Caring about their feelings. 

Charon hadn't technically asked him to find his brother, only if Hermes had seen him lately. He took the question as a directive because seeing his associate distressed affected him. He was quick to offer help before, sometimes too rashly. But none of those instances had sparked the same kind of constricting pain in his chest.

Silence.

Realizing he had been lost in thought, Hermes jolted in the air. 

"Anyway, super behind now, you know how it goes," Hermes blurted. "See you tomorrow!"

He turned. 

"Aahh…" a rasp called after him.

Hermes paused, then returned to his usual spot fluttering beside the ferryman.

"What, have someone else you need me to find?" He joked with a lopsided smile.

Charon shook his head. Reaching into the skull adorned bag at his side, the ferryman removed a small, round bottle. Golden liquid swirled within. Nectar. Drink of the gods. 

Hermes didn't know such a thing existed here. Hades had rejected any and all bottles his relatives had tried to deliver prior, calling them contraband and demanding the contents be set aside so the Furies could later destroy it. 

How had the ferryman gotten this? It must be a rare, illegal drink down here. Definitely not something given lightly. 

The gray hand lifted the bottle of nectar, offering it.

"Hhaaaakk, uuhhh..."

His ears burned a little, understanding the raspy words of thank you. 

"Hey, hey, I was just helping out a coworker in need. No need to thank me." He tried to wave the gift away.

The hatted head shook once, and Charon lifted the bottle higher. 

"Boss…." Hermes bit his lip before a cheeky smile bloomed. "You're ruining your miserly reputation, you know—first trying to hand back a coin, now this. People are going to start thinking you're a charity if this gets out."

"Hhaah..." A soft laugh, but the ferryman remained resolute. 

"Okay, if you insist," he said, taking the offering. Warmth brushed chilled skin. His fingertips tingled. "And, since it looks like I need to save your standing too, how's a trade sound?"

Charon's head curiously tilted at that. 

Hermes stashed the nectar into the depths of his bag. His eyes swept the boatman head to toe quickly. Hm, what to trade? Obol? Predicable. Gems. Impersonal, and he'd wagered that before. Gold...oh! Perfect!

Hermes dug into the depths of his satchel and felt around. Grasping the thief's offering, he held it tightly for a moment, willing his blessing into the metal. 

"Hold out your hand," he requested. 

Charon did, and Hermes placed the imbued ring on the broad, grey palm. The boatman tucked the long oar in the crook of his arm, freeing his hands to carefully inspect the trade, turning it gently back and forth, the gold caught the dim light.

"Figured you might like this, right?" Hermes asked, flitting nearer, hands folded behind his back. 

Charon lifted his head and nodded once, offering an affirmative rumble. The ring fit the large index finger, matching the others encircling work-worn hands. The boatman pressed a thumb against the metal, likely able to detect it was blessed. 

Violet light focused on him, soft and unwavering. 

"Ggrraaaaahhh?" A questioning groan eased from Charon, his thumb tensing against the ring again.

Hermes felt his ears grow warm, understanding the other was inquiring about the intent behind the trade. 

He'd been told once that giving something of yourself to the Underworld was a poor choice. The realm only took, he'd been warned. But that didn't seem entirely correct, given the nectar now nestled in his bag. Besides, this token wasn't for the Underworld. It was for his associate alone. 

"Um, so I'm really good at hearing requests. But with that token, I should be able to hear any call, anywhere clear as crystal," Hermes offered, scratching the back of his head. "So, if you ever need me to find another lost relative, there's an emergency, or...um, you feel like losing another round of knucklebones to me, don't hesitate to ask, okay?"

Hermes was great at hearing invocations, but hopefully, this would make it easier for his associate to reach him if need be. Certainly, Death going missing meant a more powerful way to contact his associate was needed, right? For the security of the Underworld, and all that. 

Charon nodded in reply and reached out a hand. 

Hermes didn't move.

A cold touch rested against his upper arm. Hermes froze, a chill racing down his spine and gooseflesh rising down the skin of his arms. The long, wide hand could have wrapped around his entire bicep. 

Steady light held his stunned gaze. 

"Hhaaakk, uuhhh..." Charon repeated quietly, fingers tensing gently.

His stomach fluttered, wings fluffing at the unexpected contact. 

"Anytime, associate," Hermes nodded, offering a small smile.

Hermes dared to rest a palm over the cold, ringed hand until it withdrew.

* * *

The daily trips to the Underworld continued, and so did Hermes's growing ties with the Chthonic gods. Like he was trusted. On the inside. Considered one of them. 

The ease with which Charon greeted him now made it feel like Hermes had always been an addition to the Underworld. The ferryman also began to open up more during his quick deliveries. If asked, Charon gave an opinion in his way. 

The troublesome king Sisyphus remained fresh in Hermes's thoughts. Sometimes, when he got stuck on a topic, his hyperactive mind couldn't help but re-run it over and over. The mortal's pride rubbed him wrong. While he usually extolled cleverness, he'd ever had it directed at him so pointedly.

Hermes couldn't help but complain a little as he fluttered beside his associate on the dock. Thoughts poured out in a flighty string. 

"I mean, I've had a few shades try to run away from me now. A few argue," Hermes aired, hunched in contemplation. "But he looked me straight in the eye and said he was immortal! Implied that he was equal to the gods! Can you believe that?" 

Charon shrugged. 

"What? Aren't you at least mad about Sisyphus duping your brother?"

A sigh eased from the ferryman. Charon merely shook his head and tapped his boney temple to say his brother should have been more clever.

"I suppose. But that king is a right piece of work. I'm sure Hades is still stewing in his chambers right now, coming up with a punishment."

Obols jingled along the gold collar as the boatman offered another shrug. 

Hermes frowned, but the reaction made sense. It wasn't Charon's duty to decide the shades' fate, only accept payment and row them to the other side. What happened beyond wasn't something the big boatman had to care about. 

Still, Hermes thought the idea of a mortal believing themselves their equal would have least interested the ferryman. The man seemed like such a rule-driven creature, Hermes thought this would have inspired some reaction.

"What, don't you care at all?" He pressed. 

Silence. 

Charon's head tilted so the darkened face could give him a glowing, one-eyed glance.

"Rraaahh...." the boatman rumbled unexpectedly.

"...Wait. You're not telling me you agree with the king's point of view?" 

A nod. Yes. A gray hand see-sawed once in the air. Sort of. 

Hermes pulled a face at the response. 

The boatman grumbled low, as if in thought. Pocketing the collected coins, Charon raised a slow, silent finger to the next shade in the line, pausing their procession. 

Violet light fully fixed on him. A gray hand beaconed nearer, fingers curling slowly in the air. Hermes fluttered closer, wings nearly skimming the underside of the wide hat. Charon's sharp face leaned nearer. 

"Oouuu, uhhhmm, eerrr..." The rattling words whispered into his ear. 

Although the dry sounds were difficult to understand, a chill shivered down his spine. Hermes glanced at the stoic ferryman, then away briefly. 

Ou, um, er…

"Outnumber?" Hermes questioned.

A stiff nod replied. 

How strange. Sisyphus had been on to something, and Charon backed it up. There was something about the remains left behind of mortal lives that lingered, that still had power. That lasted. Something that made a soul stick. 

Charon wheezed slow, difficult words, listing off the eras in plumes of purple smoke. Gold. Silver. Bronze. The periods that had come before and after the Olympic gods staked their claim on creation.  
  
In a sweeping gesture, the ferryman motioned to the line of souls before them, then slowly to the cavernous world around them. All of these souls still existed down here, in some way. Forever. Dead, but on the spectrum of existence. 

If one wayward soul had managed to stop Death, what could more do? If they were ever able to escape the Underworld or we're not led here, they would cause havoc. 

And numbers mattered. 

It was only due to the Olympians' combined strength that his father and relatives had been able to slay the Titans. The same lesson applied now; without the Underworld working in tandem to usher the dead here and organize them below, the mortal world would be overwhelmed by them, and possibly beyond.

If it wasn't for the open and infinitely expanding maul of the Underworld, the shifting labyrinthine pathways, and guardians below, the world he knew above wouldn't exist. On some level, Hermes had known this. But the ease with which he flitted across the threshold of the Underworld made him overlook the gravity of this stark fact. 

Hermes feathers ruffled as his thoughts raced. With very few words, Charon made him feel like a young fool sometimes. 

While he would have never shirked his duty before, it felt more solemn and necessary now. Hermes thought he understood his responsibilities, but he realized now his approach had been more carefree. Once, he remembered thinking of the mortals and shades akin to children, and maybe they were in some respects. But, that idea didn't seem completely accurate, a naïve thought in and of itself.

He glanced at the ferryman, feeling a mixture of respect, embarrassment, and something else flutter through his chest as violet light held his gaze.

"Understood, boss," he offered. 

From then on, Hermes never underestimated the shades again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Hermes is well acquainted with the tingling sensation of excitement. His attention constantly flitted between the realms, senses enraptured by the thrill of travel, exploring the unknown, discovering new sights. 

Mortals managed to accomplish a lot in their short lives, raising cities, taming the land, inviting new tools and techniques. The nymphs and fauns created such lovely melodies and poems. The gods intervened, taking sides, raising champions, and doling out vengeance. 

There was a constant flux of activity. Hermes was used to being struck with wonder and anticipation—there was so much to do, see!

When he suddenly felt the pull of invocation coming from the Temple of Styx, however, his heart hammered in his chest. A small, wordless gasp left Hermes. His hand tremored, nearly dropping the message he had been about to deliver to Aphrodite.

"What, did I startle you?" The Goddess of Love purred, reclining on her back against her wide, plush bed. 

Aphrodite's quarters are the most intimate. The room was divided by silk partitions, long embroidered couches, and a gargantuan bed layered in gossamer linens and rosy petals. 

The goddess settled further into her soft sheets, coils of long cherry-blossom hair barely hiding her curvaceous nakedness—a natural sight. Aphrodite was captivating in a way a fragrant valley was in springtime but not the target of his distraction. 

"Huh, what?" Hermes snapped to attention, wings fluttering. "Oh, no. Just remembered I have another delivery. Can't dawdle. You know how it goes."

"Of course, darling. You always do," Aphrodite said with a playful smile.

The goddess rolled onto her front gracefully, raising to lean her chin on a dainty palm. Her mauve eyes sparkled mischievously as she accepted the letter like she didn't entirely believe him. Hermes ignored the teasing look.

He'd been truthful, mostly. He does have another delivery—a lot more. However, if he double-timed it later this evening, maybe he could add another side quest into his schedule first.

"Later, gotta run," Hermes said the instant the handoff was complete.

Soft giggles tinkled behind him, but Hermes didn't turn around to look back, already halfway out the door. 

He was busy.

* * *

Sure, Hermes had started to spend more time with his Stygian association beyond what the strict terms of his employment with the Underworld entailed. But that didn't seem like a particularly noteworthy fact. Coworkers were allowed to enjoy one another's company. What was the harm in that?

Knucklebones had become a pastime between them, and true, maybe it was at Hermes's instance that they played. When he had a moment to spare, he'd dip into the temple, see if the ferryman was present, and, if so, tease the other into a game.

This was the first time Hermes had ever felt an invocation back from his associate. The notion sent a zip of electricity through him. He felt weirdly light. Racing against the wind had never been a problem before, but now? Hermes cut through the air like an arrow, ichor singing in his veins.

He pushed open the double doors and dashed through the temple. Charon was there waiting for him, and the sight made a strange thrill vibrate through him, spurring him faster across the last bit of platform. 

"Well, well, looks like you remembered how to use the token I gave you," Hermes teased, fluttering to a sudden stop beside his associate. "Is this a business call? Anyone go missing recently?"

The boatman offered a good-natured huff and shook his head no. 

"Then, what? Don't tell me my diligent associate is daring to take a break," he said with a smirk, brows raising as if the thought alone was unseemly.

"Graaaahhh…." Charon offered a low murmur, shrugging gilded shoulders as purple clouds of amusement left him.

"What? You think I have time to sit around and play games or something?" He asked, trying to sound serious, but a grin cut his face a beat later. "Great! Because I do."

"Hhaaaa, haaa…."

Hermes sat down on the dock in a blink of an eye and fished the pieces from his satchel. The dark, towering figure slowly lowered, joining him. Maybe he should bring another game next time, at this rate.

Charon was starting to get quite good. The boatman now backed their games with obols of his own to wager against the gems Hermes bet. A fair bit of change now lined Hermes's satchel. However, had Charon not been up against the swiftest god to ever exist, the ferryman likely would have had a better winning streak. 

"It's that time of year again. Everyone above is preparing for the Olympics," Hermes started, jumping right into new godly affairs.

One of his father's plans had, admittedly, flourished over the years. The Olympics had become a highly anticipated religious and athletic event for both the gods above and mortalkind. The majority of his kin had started to participate, blessing champions or partaking in divine rounds of sport.

"But the thing is, they decided to split the events this year. You can only participate as either a runner or choose to do wrestling and boxing," Hermes groused. "Ares kept going on about weight class and fairness, but honestly, I think he's just tired of losing to me."

"Grrraaaa?" A curious grumble left Charon, hatted head tilting. 

"What?" Hermes asked as violet light seemed to scrutinize him. 

Charon pointed in his direction. The large hand then flattened and started to lower before stopping with emphasis— _hey_. Wait a minute.

"I am not tiny, thank you very much." Hermes bristled. "What, you don't think I can hold my own?"

A non-committal groan followed. The hatted head tipped, violet light scanned him from toe to head, then silence. What did Charon think of him?

Hermes felt his face burned a little at the quiet judgment, not wholly sure of the verdict. Clearly, his associate thought he was short, but honestly, few gods measured up compared to the ferryman's imposing height.

Being on the slighter side didn't mean Hermes wasn't tenacious and divinely powerful, though. Sure, maybe it took Ares and others willingly putting aside all weaponry for his speed to overtake opponents. He might not be as outright strong as some of his Olympic kin, but endurance could overcome bursts of brutal strength. 

"And that is precisely the kind of attitude that has caused many an opponents' downfall, my judgmental friend," Hermes quipped, pride still stinging a bit.

Violet light softened at his words. Smoke wisped thinly from between black teeth. Charon rumbled lowly, shoulders sagging as he held up a placating hand in apology. A gesture Hermes doubted few ever saw from the boatman. 

"Though I suppose you don't have the same problem, rather the opposite, I'd imagine," Hermes poked back. 

A purple huff of laughter replied, and Charon shook his head no. The boatman paused their game further, hand pointing to the waterway that led to the Underworld beyond. Speaking wasn't the boatman's strong suit. 

A new game started, charades. 

Through a series of rumbles and gestures, Hermes began to understand his associate more clearly. It took a little time, breaking words down syllable by syllable, but they were equally persistent.

Hermes couldn't quite understand Charon like the other Chthonic gods seemed to do. Thanatos had responded as if he understood his brother's every intonation perfectly. Still, Hermes came to grasp his associate was making references to an arena tucked somewhere in the splendor of Elysium.

He'd heard of the stadium; his father and the God of War had made references prior, but he'd never come across it in his travels yet. Still, it was nice knowing that the world below also continued to enjoy athletics in the hereafter, in some fashion. It was weirdly comforting that enjoyment didn't fade. 

"Ohh, right, there _is_ an arena on the upper levels. I've heard that many of the warriors like to spar for eternity. Do they let gods participate?" he asked. 

"Ahhhh…." Charon offered a low affirmative.

"Have you ever taken part?"

The boatman nodded curtly and held up a single finger. Yes, once. Then gilded shoulders shrugged. 

"So, once and done then," Hermes surmised. "What, they don't let you participate any more or something?"

Another positive nod. 

"Why?"

A rattling sigh left his associate. Ringed fingers drummed against the sharp outline of a knee as the other considered how to respond. 

Finally, Charon pointed at himself, then raised his arm to the side. The limb flexed once, long and lean, but undeniably corded with sinewy muscle. Strong. Solid. Hermes let his gaze trace the prominent musculature honed from endless eons of labor until the grey arm lowered. 

"Humblebrag. Considering your winning streak right now, and all," Hermes returned, wings puffing and mouth suddenly feeling a little dry. 

"Hhaaa…." A soft raspy laugh answered.

Their game resumed. 

Hermes played his hand, but a thought stuck in his head: what would it be like to wrestle the boatman? Just as a friendly test of strength, nothing more. The way Charon's hands moved during their games, he knew the other was quick but fast enough to catch him? Unlikely. Still, those hard-working hands, calloused and wide from rowing, were perfect for grappling. 

He remembered the other's gentle touch. 

Long, ringed fingers could have wrapped around his upper arm with room to spare. The touch had been kind, thankful, but what would it be like with more might behind it? While Charon had been irritated with him in the past, he'd never been violent, but those long arms and broad frame radiated power. 

Charon must have a tall, solid form under his dark, gilded robes, judging from how the man bent to sit down. Was the ancient deity corded with lean muscle like his arms, skeletal, a mixture of both? It wasn't a question he'd ever had to really dwell on before.

In sporting events, mortals and the divine often competed in the nude or nearly so. It kept things fair—no concealed weapons. But, as one mortal runner who'd lost his garment on purpose proclaimed, it made competing easier: no constricting fabric, nothing to grab hold of, nothing to weigh one down.

Gooseflesh rose along his bronze arms, imagining those cold hands tightening and cored arms flexing, trying to pin him to the ground. Would all of Charon feel icy as his ringed fingers or warm like the steamy vapor that poured from his mouth? Did the ferryman possess a physique similar to the amorous gods above?

Questions bunched together. Wings puffed. His face felt hot. The hypothetical idea spiraled down startling pathways, but they all started from the same point—a touch.

A very innocent, kind gesture he was now overcomplicating. 

"Gaahhh…"

Hermes jumped. Wings fluffing, he immediately dispersed his thoughts. 

"Sorry, what?"

A large hand gestured to the bones before them, five neatly stacked on the back of a grey hand. 

Charon had won.

"Oh!" Hermes blinked. "Well, about time, old man. I was starting to think you'd never beat me."

Violet light rolled in empty sockets at his teasing. Hermes couldn't help offer a small half-smile as he handed over the gems before packing away the game pieces. 

"So, what do you plan on finally doing with your winnings, associate?" He asked. 

Gilded shoulders shimmed slightly as the other contemplated how to respond.

"Hhhooorr..."

"You—wait, did I hear that right? You have a store?" Hermes perked up. 

Charon's chin dipped once: yes. 

"You didn't tell me you had a side business."

A shrug.

Strange. Who was there to sell wares down to here? His uncle seemed to consider nearly everything from above contraband, too. Unless. 

"You sell goods to the dead?"

A curt nod. 

Hermes gave the other a puzzled looked. He was finely attuned to wealth and commerce in the mortal world, but it took him but surprise that the Underworld had an economy. The idea that a store operated in the depth of the Earth was a weird concept. 

"Don't get me wrong—that's interesting. Definitely unexpected, but I thought the shades no longer needed, well, anything. Aside from the first obol to cross over, what use do dead have for currency or goods?"

In reply, Charon grabbed the oar at this side. The ferryman straightened and rose to stand tall once more in a fluid motion. A ringed hand gestured toward Hermes then to the moored boat, head tilting slightly in the same direction. 

The meaning was straightforward: get in. 

It seemed the boatman wanted to show him the answer.

Hermes hesitated for a moment, wings fidgeting. He really should be getting back. Deliveries needed to be made. He had maybe, sort of, already shifted his schedule a bit to put a little downtime before business. 

"You're springing this on me kinda suddenly, boss," he confessed.

Charon said nothing, his hand just dipping nearer toward the waiting boat. Get in, please.

Hermes worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He had never heard a tale of the ferryman giving anyone a ride for free. An opportunity that seemed too genuine to pass up. If he double-timed it this afternoon, really sprinted like the wind, he could make up for any lost time.

He shot his stoic associate a lopsided smile, chest tightening with fondness.

"You sure are convincing, boss. I'll give you that." 

"Haaahh…"

* * *

Traveling with Charon was strange.

Hermes couldn't sit still, so he fluttered to and fro from stem to stern. He'd expected the trip to take a while, given the boatman's steady but slower motions. In a few moments, however, the winding pathways grew brighter. Elysium unfolded around them, sudden and lovely. Lush grasses whispered along the shoreline. 

Hermes wasn't a stranger to racing through the Underworld, but the change was faster than anticipated, given their pace. It was quite possible the Stygian ferryman simply knew more shortcuts in the Underworld than anyone.

Still, the boat cleaved so smoothly through the darkness, it felt as if the very waterways rearranged to allow faster passage. Like the rivers were a conscious creature opening and closing the chambers of a heart to redirect the flow. Time and distance didn't seem to be a concrete concept in the Underworld, especially when a Chthonic god ferried you. 

White, circular stone walls rose swiftly, towering near the shoreline. Hermes knew the distinct, annular monument on sight—an arena. The Underworld Stadium. 

What were they doing here? 

For the Underworld, the place was rather lively. There had to be several dozen souls. Clusters of shades milled around, some lining up to enter the arena's open gates, others appearing to gossip among themselves. 

Charon docked the boat at one of the many piers that cropped up every so often along the riverways. Without a sound, the ancient deity drifted off the helm of the skiff and down the dock. Hermes blinked, eyes darting around briefly before zipping after his mysterious associate. 

Beyond the stone pathway that served as the entrance to the arena was a little patch of yard. The narrow strip of green was decorated with three simple square marble altars on the right. On the left-hand side stood a stone pergola that shaded several barrels and empty wooden stalls. 

The boatman came to a stop beside the alters and reached into the satchel as his side.

Hermes had come to suspect the little skull-adorned bag functioned on a similar principle to his satchel: it was bigger on the inside. Charon laid out a small array of goods one by one on the altars: several gems, what appeared to be some kind of dried meat, and a bottle of nectar. 

As soon as the items were displayed, shades gravitated closer. The quiet din in the air reminded Hermes of the mortal agoras above. Ghostly hands picked over wares. It seemed that warriors and kings still had wealth, even in death. The shades produced obols for what they desired. 

While the souls gave him and his associate a respectful distance, they had no problem drifting up to Charon to pay. The shades concluded their business with a dip of their heads and words of thanks. The ease of the transactions indicated that Charon's shop must have been going on for some time and was a routine and appreciated service. 

Hermes didn't think shades could eat, and he was right. They couldn't. 

Still, the dead sampled the dried meat and sweet nectar in their way. The jerky seemed to darken and rot in ethereal hands, turning to dust. The bottle of nectar was opened and shared, passed around by a circle of shades. The liquor immediately browned and fumed into a bitter perfume the souls seemed to happily try to inhale.

It was as if the dead sucked the essence out of the morsels. 

The shades appeared to still have wants, which was weirdly unexpected. A concept Hermes hadn't considered before beyond getting them to the threshold of the Underworld. Sure, some complained about unfinished business. Others seemed shocked by their passing. At least one has gone so far as to try and trap Death. But Hermes hadn't really taken in the full breadth of these desires before. 

The shades still wanted to eat, drink. Yearned to participate in and watch sporting events. Wanted to go to market, mingle with one another. They seemed to gather in a way that mimicked the lively towns in the mortal plane. It was strange, but at the same time, comforting. 

The dead were a lot like the living. 

"I'm assuming the Lord of the House doesn't know about your little side venture, considering the nature of your wares?" Hermes asked, coming to flutter beside his associate.

The hatted head shook once no. 

"Completely off the record, then." Hermes brow arched, a smile growing in delight. "I didn't know you were _this_ secretive, my enterprising friend."

A raspy snort followed. 

Not that terrible long ago, the ferryman would barely acknowledge his presence. Now? Here he was in the depths of Elysium, watching a subdued mirror image of the mortal agoras above. Asked and allowed to bear witness to something even Hades didn't know: the Stygian ferryman had a side job. 

While he didn't completely know Charon's thoughts regarding him, evidently, his associate felt comfortable enough to confide in him. Hermes realized he had earned something new, the faith that he could keep a secret. Charon trusted him. Warmth fluttered through Hermes, absorbing this silent truth. 

"Nice items, but I have to admit, they seem to be a little on the light side. Where does your stock come from?" He asked, dipping down impulsively to inspect the altars.

Gilded shoulders shrugged, and a dismissive puff left his taciturn associate.

"Fine, you can keep some of your secrets," Hermes snorted, giving a smile that soon curled mischievously. "I have to say, whoever your source is, they could be doing a muuuch better job."

Charon clicked inky teeth. Violet light focused on him in a one-eyed stare, seeming to scrutinize him. 

"Not to diminish their efforts. But, have you considered outsourcing your supply chain?" He pressed, flitting back to the boatman's side. "It's not as if you don't know a very capable porter who graces you with their presence daily."

Silence.

Bright light followed his trajectory as he drifted through the air.

"I've offered you gems and the like in the past during our games. You know I have access to quite a lot of lovely trinkets. Since everything seems to be a commodity down here, I doubt it would take that long to see a return profit, given the interest here among the shades."

"Grraahhh…" a low, thoughtful murmur escaped as Charon titled his head.

"All I ask is for fair compensation in return." Hermes proposed, coming to a stop in front of the other. "Say, we split the earnings from what I bring you fifty-fifty."

The hatted head titled the other way, then shook once. 

Charon held out a large hand, fingers curling slowly in the air as if urging him to do the same. Hermes copied the motion, raising his hand, palm up. A calloused, cold finger scribbled across the flat of his hand. 

_30/70_.

Hermes snorted. 

"You're shrewd enough to give Solon a run for his money, boss. That hardly seems fair, what with moving illegal goods and all, clearly going against the Lord of the House's wishes. I could get in a lot of trouble." He rejected with a shrug. "Guess you're just not as serious about expanding as I thought—shame." 

Hermes wasn't green. 

Yes, he was willing to help his Stygian associate flood the Underworld with contraband. The whole idea was just too delicious to pass up. Making money right under Hades's nose while performing their regular duties to the letter? Brilliant. But he wasn't going to be taken advantage of either. 

Charon sighed. 

The grey finger whisked across his palm again.

 _35/65_.

"Oh, please, you can do better than that—I know you have the obol."

"Ggrrreeee, eeeeee..."

Hermes gasped in feigned shock. "I am not being greedy. Now, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black, I swear."

"Hhhaaaa..." Charon gave a small puff of laughter.

 _40/60_.

"Better, not the best, but better," Hermes conceded before a half-smile lifted his lips. "Fine, but I'm definitely going to haggle with you on any item I deem to be a specialty."

Another purple cloud of amusement. 

"Deal?" Hermes asked, holding out his hand for the other to take.

The large, ringed hand nearly enveloped his as they shook. Deal. Hermes never shied away from the prospect of lucrative work, but the excitement that thrummed through his chest made his fingertips tingle long after Charon let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AmputeeTrainee). <3


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